


Counsellor's Companion

by auri_mynonys



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Companionable Snark, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Grima is a creepy douche as per usual, Heavy Petting, Intrigue, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Partner Betrayal, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-06 23:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15205604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: When Eowyn is finally invited to join her uncle on his summer tour of the country, she expects wild adventure and heretofore unknown freedoms. What she gets instead is a sheltered tour of only the most wholesome aspects of the kingdom - that is, until Grima offers to take her to a dangerous festival, disguised as his mistress.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic YEARS ago, back in 2013 - and, being me, I never finished it despite having a completely outline and half the fic already written in non-linear bits and pieces. Go figure, my brain is a nightmare. Anyway, I've recently gotten some writing oomph back and I'm working to complete it. I'm posting it here as a permanent location, instead of having it live only on my Tumblr.
> 
> Some background: I wrote this after going to my local Renaissance Faire in 2013 and thinking about this AU concept all day. This is set fairly early on in Grima's rise to power in Rohan. Eowyn is, in my estimation, 19-20ish at the start of the story. I am and always have been interested in the conflict and attraction between these two characters; that repulsion and attraction is primarily what draws me to them. That's essentially what I set out to explore here, while hopefully still taking everyone with me on a fun adventure.
> 
> Enjoy!

Éowyn had waited all her life to attend her uncle on his summer sojourn around the country. It was Théoden's favorite tradition: gathering half the court and going city to city, greeting minor lords and speaking with the peasantry. It was an event much looked forward to at Edoras. To Éowyn it had always seemed an intangible delight, a magical adventure to which she would never be invited.

Théodred had hardly gone a summer without joining the King's retinue. More recently, Éomer had gone in Théodred's stead, returning with stories of glorious festivals held in the King's honor, of magnificent staged battles and shows of fine horsemanship and duels held for the King's entertainment. He spoke often, too, of the pretty women he had met, but this part Éowyn greeted with a roll of her eyes and a heavy sigh. Éomer was free to bed whomever he pleased, being a man; but Éowyn, high-born lady that she was, had heard more scoldings on the importance and value of her chastity than she dared to name.

To that end, she had been warned that there were certain men that were best avoided: certain men who would dare to tempt her from her duty's path, and indulge for her the wicked pleasures in which her brother and cousin freely engaged all summer long.

_Certain men_ , of course, referred only to one of late: for it was apparent to any with eyes that Théoden's newest counsellor had designs upon Éowyn's person, and indeed seemed to have had them from the moment he had first clapped eyes upon her. This despite (or perhaps because of) Éowyn's improper state at the time of his arrival.

On that day, she had crept from Meduseld dressed in her brother's clothes, ill-disguised as a young lordling. A peasant boy had dared to taunt her, and had gotten a face full of her fist for his trouble. In response, guards from Meduseld's steps had torn the two apart; and upon seeing Éowyn's face, they had recognized her immediately and dragged her back to Meduseld, shoving her before her uncle for his reprimand and interrupting him in the midst of his introduction to Gríma son of Gálmód.

Éowyn could still remember looking up and meeting Gríma's eyes for the first time: ice-cold, the purest, sharpest, most painful blue she had ever seen. He had frowned only for an instant; and then something had changed in the depths of his gaze, an almost imperceptible warmth flooding his features. Upon her uncle's begrudging introduction, Gríma had taken her hand and kissed her bloodied knuckles with all the reverence of a supplicant before his deity, lacking any of the disgust and alarm present in the faces of the counsellors around him. When he spoke, his words were only for her, a honeyed whisper that brushed her skin like a lover's fingers. “It is indeed a pleasure, my lady,” he had said; and even then, the emphasis he placed upon the possessive was unmistakable. “I pray our acquaintance shall be a prolonged one.”

Never had any man dared attempt so bold a seduction; or if they had, Éowyn had failed to notice. But Gríma's intent was plain even to her naïve mind; and, suddenly awash with a fluttering heat she neither understood nor liked, Éowyn plucked her fingers from his and stepped away, cursing the obvious color in her cheeks. When Théoden had dismissed her, she had run like a frightened child back to her quarters, Gríma's gaze still burning at the back of her neck.

She had half-hoped that he would like her less upon seeing her gowned and bejeweled that night; but he only seemed to like her all the more. Upon her entrance his eyes caught hers again and held her, lazily taking in every inch of her, lingering on the split in her lip where her opponent had hit her – the last sign of her disheveled appearance. He had smiled then, slowly, a secret smile she often saw inhabiting his face in the days that came after; and any who saw him knew then that he meant to have her, come hell or high water.

Éowyn's friends had claimed that Gríma would be gone by midwinter, with both his Dunlending blood and his indecent desires so apparent. But Théoden grew fond of Gríma almost at once, and soon it was only Gríma's advice he trusted, only Gríma he turned to when he was most troubled.

So it was that at the start of summer, Théoden named Gríma son of Gálmód his chief counsellor, and dissolved the remainder of his council. There were mutterings among the court, and cruel names clustered about the new Lord Counsellor like flies to a horse. The Snake; the Viper; the Wormtongue. It was this last one that stuck strongest, so much so that it became rare indeed for any in court to use only Gríma's true-born name.

There was fear, for a time, that the Wormtongue would remain behind to rule that summer in Théoden's absence; but Théoden, it seemed, would not be parted from his favored counsellor. So Gríma was named a member of Théoden's close retinue; and Éowyn, for the first time, was asked also to go.

Her friends begged her not to do so, not with Gríma as her likely constant companion. “He will see you dishonored and destroyed,” they said. “He will come to you when the night is darkest and ruin you, and the King will not believe you when you tell him what has happened. He trusts to dark counsel now, my lady; and your word against the Wormtongue's will be as nothing to Théoden King.”

But Éowyn had waited all her life to travel out of Edoras, to be part of the King's personal retinue and experience the pleasures her brother and cousin had always known. And if Gríma were to make his way into her tent uninvited... there were blades Éowyn kept upon her person, just in case.

Though, truth be told, he might not have been so unwelcome as her friends wished to believe. Gríma both frightened and excited her; and there was something very alluring in how much happiness he seemed to take in her presence. He brightened noticeably when she appeared at the doors to his quarters, delivering messages from the king; and he liked for her to linger, ensnaring her with sharp and witty banter Éowyn could not help but respond to. She found a strange pleasure in this battle of words – nearly as much as she did in battling with swords. There was joy, too, in how he crafted a phrase innocent to the ears, but darker in intent – a constant game of riddles that set her blood racing.

He was a puzzle, and a difficult one at that; and Éowyn had always liked puzzles.

So it was that Éowyn packed her things and rode off with Théoden, much delighted with her circumstances. Both Éomer and Théodred remained behind to see to affairs in Edoras – and very few of her friends were to travel with the group. Éowyn was, or so she thought, blessedly free to do as she wished.

But Théoden kept a far tighter rein on Éowyn than he did on either of his boys. When she first made to wander freely about the markets of their first destination, Théoden scolded her and drew her back to him. “A lady of your station cannot wander the streets alone,” he said. “You must stay with me at all times.”

“I have a knife,” she protested. “And I will gladly take a sword as well, if you so fear for my person.”

“Ruffians shall have knives too, and swords – and they will be bigger, and there will be more of them,” Théoden replied. “No, you shall stay with me, Éowyn. Come, you cannot be so tired of an old man's company already!”

“No,” Éowyn had replied, a touch sullen; and she had taken his arm and sworn that next time, she would convince him to let her go. Next time.

But each city was much the same as the last. Whatever counsels Théoden attended, Éowyn attended too; what entertainments he saw, she saw too. Some were spectacular: showy duels and displays of horsemanship, and visits to the stables to see the beautiful horses being raised in each corner of the land. This at least Éowyn enjoyed; but such entertainments appeared to be the bane of Gríma's existence. Even with Éowyn near to him on an almost constant basis, Gríma seemed eternally bored.

He was happier when Théoden sent him to wander the streets, and returned with renewed vigor and reams of new information for the king's ears alone. Éowyn assumed, rather more jealously than she cared to admit, that he was visiting the local brothels – strictly for information, she was sure he would say; but he was undoubtedly sampling the wares.

The assumption annoyed her far more than was reasonable, and she took to riding in sulking silence, rebuffing Gríma's relatively few attempts to converse with her with a mask of cold courtesy. Sometimes she spoke with a few of her uncle's favored soldiers, or shared stories with the few ladies that traveled with the group, glancing idly in Gríma's direction and smiling, as if to say, _I am quite enjoying myself without you, thank you._

Gríma's anger was a balm to her wounded pride.

So the trip passed them by: once city after another, horses and duels that began to look much the same after a time, food that tasted all alike, people who bowed and scraped and thanked the King for visiting. They wore their best faces for their royalty, and Éowyn, who had so hoped to experience all the wilder joys of her homeland, found herself rapidly growing weary.

But then, she learned of the festival in one of the most distant trading towns: a rough borderland village rife with both Dunlendings and Rohirrim, where trade was plentiful and the people strange. “They claim some of the Haradrim will be there, those that will not fight for the enemy,” a soldier friend, Andsaca, explained; “And there shall be fire breathers and sword swallowers, reenactments of old battles – even horse races!”

For the first time, Éowyn felt real excitement. “And I suppose we will be going?”

“Oh, no,” Andsaca said, shaking his head at once. “That town is far too dangerous, even for the king. They have associated overmuch with Dunlendings there, and their loyalties might easily be questioned. No, alas, we shall have to pass it by. But rumor has it the King means to camp nearby and send the Wormtongue along to observe.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “He was born here, you know. The people know him.”

Unconsciously, Éowyn glanced back towards the counsellor. His gaze was upon her, a thunderous expression clouding his face. It only darkened further upon seeing her look to him; doubtless he realized that he was being spoken of. Her cheeks colored. Nothing had been said that could truly cause offense, save for the wretched name; but how would he know that, when all he saw was her look and Andsaca's?

“Surely he will not go alone,” Éowyn said, absently, turning away from Gríma's cold eyes.

“Who would wish to go with him?” Andsaca asked, disdain coloring his voice. “He will not be in any danger. Such disreputable places are fit homes for such a man.”

Éowyn wished, for a moment, that such disreputable places might be seen as a fit home for her, too.  
  


* * *

 

Despite Andsaca's words, Éowyn desperately wished to attend the festival, and see at last all the things she had so much hoped to discover on this long journey. She resolved to ask her uncle as soon as the camp was prepared, and set about her work with renewed vigor and cheer.

Her work complete, she hurried to Théoden's tent, presuming he would not yet be in counsel. But when she entered the tent unannounced, as family always did, Gríma was there, folded into a small chair in the corner. Éowyn drew to a halt upon seeing him, remembering all too well the look he had cast her earlier in the afternoon; but only the barest hint of anger flared in his eyes when he saw her at the tent's entrance.

He rose, all courtesy and kindness. “Ah, my lady,” Gríma said, offering her a bow. Théoden did not acknowledge her. He was busy with a basin in the opposing corner, washing the dirt from his face and hands after the long day; he hardly glanced up when Gríma spoke. “What a pleasant surprise. Your preparations for the evening must have been completed with great speed.”

“You may rise, counsellor,” Éowyn said, a touch haughtier than she'd intended. It was a taunt, goading the counsellor into striking back; he inevitably did, when she treated him with such regal formality. Theirs was a game of power, a constant struggle to see who might best whom; and it was undeniably seductive, believing she might have so much power over so dangerous a man. “I had not expected to find you here so early.”

Gríma straightened, his expression unreadable. “The King asked for me,” he said, brushing a stray bit of dust from his cloak. “As you must surely know, it is my only wish to serve your house in whatever capacity is required.” He met her eyes suddenly, catching Éowyn off-guard. She flinched away before she could stop herself, angrily schooling her features into a mask of indifference. Gríma had always had more skill in that arena than she. “I extend such courtesy to you as well, of course, my lady. Should you ever require me for any reason...”

Éowyn raised a brow in a mark of disdain. “The King doubtlessly has more need of you than I.”

She had expected him to react with anger, but he merely smiled – never a good sign. “Perhaps.” He frowned in false concern and approached her, boldly laying a hand upon her chin and tilting her face towards his. “It appears the sun has begun to burn you, my lady,” he said. “Your cheeks and nose are tinged quite red. If you would care for something to ease the sting – ”

“No, thank you,” Éowyn said sharply, swallowing a startled gasp. She wrenched herself free of his grip, the burn from the sun turning brighter at her blush. “I'm sure it will heal on its own.”

Gríma bowed again, deeply, his smile widening. “Of course,” he said. “Whatever my lady should desire.”

Much to Éowyn's relief, Théoden turned away from the basin at last, setting aside the basin and cloth he had used to dry his hands. “Éowyn,” he said, opening his arms to her. She stepped into them gratefully, but her eyes remained on Gríma as her uncle embraced her. Gríma rose and observed them with an implacable expression, broken only for an instant when he paused to lick his lips, rapidly, as if they had suddenly gone very dry.

Théoden stepped back, patting Éowyn affectionately on the head. It was a fatherly gesture, and it made Éowyn feel a mere girl of six again. “Did you come to keep an old man company, my dear, or have you something to tell me?”

“Something to ask,” Éowyn said, folding her hands behind her back. She wished now that she had taken a moment to change into a clean garment, something without the stains of riding and travel. “There were rumors going about the caravan today that suggested there is a festival happening nearby...”

Théoden's expression clouded. “And you wish to go,” he said. “I am sorry, Éowyn, but I cannot allow that.”

A hundred childish emotions overwhelmed Éowyn all at once. “Why not?” she demanded, fighting the urge to shout. The need to do so only grew the stronger when she realized that Gríma was watching her intently, as if he took great pleasure in her inevitable defeat.

“These lands can be wild,” Théoden said, shaking his head, “And such places are not meant for young ladies of high birth.”

“But had I a sword – a knife even – !” Éowyn protested.

Théoden sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have made such arguments before, Éowyn,” he said. “They did not hold then; and they especially will not hold now. Weapons will not protect a woman like you in a place like this one.”

“Send a guard with me if your fear is so great,” Éowyn snapped, curling her fingers into small, tight fists. “Send ten of them, if you must! Please – I have never been allowed to go to such things, and they will have weapons from other countries and songs I've not heard. Andsaca even says that there will be craftsman from Harad there! Why can I not go?”

Théoden sighed once more and turned away, shaking his head. “Niece, you are too young, and the folk that come to such things too dangerous to a lady for you to venture there, whether alone or guarded. Now, I shall hear no more of this. Gríma may sate your curiosity when he returns from the festival tomorrow night.”

Éowyn glanced to where the counsellor stood. There was no question that he was smirking now, fingers folded across his stomach, amusement dancing his eyes. “I had heard rumors that he might attend,” Éowyn said, deliberately refusing to address Gríma himself. “What business has your counsellor at such a festival, my lord? Surely so important a man should be by your side at all times?”

Gríma shifted, slowly making his way to stand at her shoulder, his distance from her person just barely within the rules of propriety. “You flatter my position and my power, my lady – but it may be such flattery is apt,” he said. Éowyn turned to glance over her shoulder, eyes blazing; but her anger only fed Gríma's unfettered glee. “Why so determined to rush headlong into danger, princess?” he asked. “Perhaps it would be best for – how did you say it? – 'so important a man'? – to be set at _your_ side, rather than your uncle's, if you mean to place yourself so carelessly in harm's way.”

Éowyn stiffened, lips parting indignantly. “I hardly think I require _you_ to protect me, my lord,” she said.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Certainly not,” he agreed, “But _my lady._..”

The emphasis on her title and the possessive that came before it seemed especially forceful, here in such close quarters.

“...it is my primary duty to protect what the king holds dear,” he concluded. “And what could any man hold dearer than a woman such as you?”

His utter lack of subtlety was appalling; but more appalling was Théoden's apparent obliviousness. “It is a generous offer, Gríma, but for tomorrow you are needed elsewhere,” he said, bowing over a set of maps. “There is much that one might learn from such a festival, if one knows where to look – and you more than any of my court shall know best where that is. And as for you, niece – would you put your friends and servants – and yourself – in danger for your own amusement? You are a valuable asset to Rohan, and should you be recognized, there are many who would be unafraid to use you to their advantage.”

_An asset,_ Éowyn thought bitterly, clenching her teeth. _Of course. Why see a lady as a person, when she can be a tool?_ “I understand,” she said coldly, gathering her skirts in her hands. “Duty over desire, I suppose, is a woman's lot.”

Théoden looked up, wearing a small frown. “Don't be petty, Éowyn,” he chided. “It is everyone's lot. Your royal status does not exempt you from it.”

Éowyn bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to hold her silence. She dropped a sullen curtsy, aware of Gríma's eyes still hot upon her, and turned in a flurry of linen, escaping the oppressive air of the tent.  


* * *

 

Éowyn was still seething over her lost battle that night. She sat amidst a cluster of handmaidens, crowding her small tent, chattering away about the trip and the brief respite they were to have here. Picnics were being planned, and games of all sorts; but Éowyn had ears for none of them.

Annoyed, Éowyn raised her head and said, “Please, leave me for the evening.”

“But my lady – ” one girl protested.

It sounded so much like Gríma's own earlier protest that Éowyn cut her off before she had the chance to finish. “Go!” she ordered, rising and point towards the tent's entrance. “I am tired, and wish to be alone. Will you not give me at least one night to be alone?”

The handmaidens filed out silently, casting each other worried glances. Éowyn winced, her own harshness troubling to her; but when all of them had gone, a great sense of relief filled her, and she sagged gratefully onto her cot, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes.

She had had such hopes for this long journey. While in some ways it had given her everything she had hoped for – new friends, and visits to new places, and a true vision of the expanse of her homeland – it had denied her everything she had truly wanted: a chance to explore freely, with no chains or rules or guardians to bind her. Meduseld was home to her, but it was in many ways a gilded cage. Where once it had been a place of safety and kindness and joy, it had become, now that she was a woman grown, a prison. And it was the men she loved best who guarded and held her there: uncle, brother, cousin – counsellor.

Éowyn's thoughts caught inexplicably upon Gríma and stayed there, even as she tried to brush him aside. He was a particularly thorny problem. His interest in her doings was thorough and intense. Where Théoden and Éomer and Théodred saw merely an impetuous young girl who had yet to learn her place, a child they might indulge, Gríma saw her for what she truly was: a woman desperate to escape the strictures that bound her. It left her vulnerable to him in a way that she was not with her male relations, and it frightened her that Gríma could perceive her so clearly where other men could not.

It would have been different if Gríma was not the sort of man to use such vulnerabilities to his advantage. Entering into a conversation with him was like going into battle – one for which Éowyn often felt woefully unprepared. She was quick to anger and quicker to speak, too sharp and to careless with her tongue. One wounding phrase from Gríma and she opened to him at once, all her fears and anger and worry on display.

On one point at least she could credit Lord Counsellor: he knew her very, very well.

Absently, Éowyn began to work at the knot that closed the laces of her dress. Dismissing her handmaidens prior to undressing had, in retrospect, likely been a bad idea; but Éowyn assumed she would manage. She bit her lip and began to struggle with the knot, fingers slipping over its surface.

Whether it was her lack of concentration, or her handmaiden's careful work, the knot refused to come undone, defying her fingertips at every single angle. Éowyn cursed under her breath, struggling desperately to take hold of the damnable thing. She thought, for an instant, of the dagger at her hip; then gave up and grabbed for it, pressing it to the laces of her gown with a small snarl.

“You've no need for such desperate measures, my lady,” said Gríma, voice issuing from behind her. “Should you require an extra pair of hands, mine are ever at your service.”

Éowyn gasped, startled, and leapt to her feet, the dagger pointed now at Gríma's throat. He glanced down at the blade and raised his hands in surrender, the tiniest of smirks beginning to blossom at the corner of his lips. “It was merely an offer, my lady,” he said, lifting his eyes from the blade to meet her angry stare. “You need not treat it as a threat.”

“Counsellor,” Éowyn said, narrowing her eyes. “It is rather presumptuous of you to enter unannounced, don't you think? I would hardly call you family.”

The only sign that the remark had struck a blow was the slight tightening of the muscles around Gríma's mouth. “A thousand pardons, my lady,” he said with a mocking bow, nudging the dagger aside with his hand before doing so. “I had expected you to be surrounded by an army of handmaidens, as always.”

Éowyn cast him a scornful look. “If you had expected others, you would not be here,” she said, letting the dagger drop. She tucked it back into her belt, where it would stay lest she need it. “You hoped to throw me off balance. If it is any comfort to you, you have succeeded.”

He rose, brows arched just slightly. “Apparently not as much as you would have me believe,” he said. His eyes were warm for once, admiring. “But I suppose you are correct; I had hoped to catch you alone.”

“How refreshing to hear you admit it,” Éowyn said, raising her hands and working at the laces once more. “Lest the thought occur to you, my lord, there are no less than twenty armed guards within a few yards of my tent. One scream, and they will all be upon you.”

Gríma pursed his lips. “I believe I ought to be offended at what you are suggesting.”

“Are you asking, my lord?” Éowyn inquired sweetly. “Any decent man would take offense immediately, of course, without the need to inquire if that was right; but you being above the laws of decent men...”

To her surprise, Gríma merely laughed. “How low an opinion you have of me,” he said. “It is a pity. I had hoped our relations might perhaps be friendlier.”

“ _Much_ friendlier, if your remarkably blatant hints are anything to judge by,” Éowyn retorted, growling as the knot broke free of her fingers yet again. “ _Blast..._ ”

“You are much bolder in private, my lady,” Gríma said. The words were spoken with a strange intensity, his eyes locked unblinking upon her. “I like it.”

Éowyn gave a small bark of laughter, bitter and cold. “I exist only for your pleasure, my lord,” she said, dropping a curtsy too deep to be genuine.

Gríma scoffed. “What a pretty little picture,” he said. “But we both know my pleasure means nothing to you. However, _your_ pleasure is a rather greater concern of mine; and that is what brings me to you tonight.”

Éowyn straightened, folding her hands across her chest and frowning. “I hope, for your sake more than mine, that you are not suggesting what I think you must be,” she said.

He smiled thinly. “I would not even think to dream it,” he said. The words dripped with bitter mockery. “You would of course only consider such an offer from a brave, burly soldier, rippling with muscle and stinking of horse.”

Éowyn wrinkled her nose. The description only reminded her of her brother or her cousin – the last thing she would hope for in a bed mate. “We all stink of horse, counsellor,” she said, returning to the knot. “We are the Horse Lords, after all.”

Gríma sneered. “Oh, indeed,” he agreed. “Lords and lovers of horses, all. It must rankle, my lady, knowing each man you even think to pursue would surely choose his horse over you.”

“One might wonder why the issue is of such concern to you, my lord – but I suppose we already know the answer,” Éowyn said. It annoyed her how much she longed to protest the sort of man he'd predicted she would want. _No, I do not want a man who is the same as other men. I want a man clever and bold. I want a man who is a challenge, a puzzle, confusing, a rebellion. I want a man who looks at me and sees me for all I am, and loves me anyway. I want a man who looks at me like I am something more than a lady. I want –_

Her thoughts froze mid-protest, shrieking to a halt. _You?_

“Everything you do is of concern to me,” Gríma was saying. “It is my sworn duty...”

Éowyn nearly groaned, her agitation and annoyance getting the better of her. More games, more lies, more coy protests. Was this how it went with all men – playing at propriety when they wished for something else? “Gríma, please, don't insult me,” she said, dropping his title and all pretenses along with it. “It has nothing to do with duty, and you and I both know it. Indeed, the entire camp appears to know it, save my uncle, of course. He trusts you rather more than you deserve.”

A muscle in Gríma's jaw tightened. “He is a trusting man,” he agreed. “After all, he cheerfully leaves you in the hands of drunkards, braggarts, and womanizers, with nary a warning or care. Tell me, princess, do you really prefer such men – small-minded and stupid, smelling of sweat and horses and wet hunting dog, pretending their skill with a blade somehow translates to skill in the bedchamber?”

It was the most vehement speech he had ever recited for Éowyn. She supposed she ought to be alarmed, but all she felt was triumph. Clearly, she had struck a nerve. It was only fair, given how badly he'd shaken her. “Jealousy does not look well on you, my lord,” she said. “Do you mean to continue insulting the caliber of men I theoretically take to my bed, or are you here to become one?”

The words were out before Éowyn could stop them. Common sense caught up to her in a rush, screaming profanities – but the words had already been spoken. Éowyn flinched away from her own intentions, hands fluttering nervously at her sides.

The playful turn of phrase left Gríma almost unhinged. His eyes were dark and full of fire now, sparking in the low light of her candles. “Don't play games with me, Éowyn,” he warned. “I assure you, you have neither the wit nor the capability to win.”

All of Éowyn's humiliation faded at once at the taunt. Éowyn drew herself up. Did he dare to think her witless? Well, she could spar with him; and she would strike hard, where it would hurt him most. “I need no wit to win you, my lord,” she retorted hotly. “It seems my body shall do.”

If she had thought him shocked before, it was as nothing compared to what she had done to him now. His eyes bulged, and he swallowed heavily, licking his lips as if tasting the air for the lie in her words. Éowyn shrank a little, chagrined. Her damnable, impulsive tongue would see her dead one day, if she could not learn to control it.

“Well,” Gríma said, very slowly, his voice hoarse and heavy with longing, “Since you apparently mean to make so free with your person, my lady, perhaps I might offer you an exchange.”

Éowyn's eyes narrowed abruptly. “You have nothing I want.” _Don't you dare name yourself – don't you dare..._

“On the contrary. I have several things you want,” Gríma replied, “Namely, access to the festival you so desperately wish to attend.”

Éowyn was so surprised by the offer that for a moment she could only stare. Slowly a smile took her, delight swelling in her chest. “You – you would bring me with you?”

Gríma smiled thinly. “Yes,” he said. “For a small price...”

Éowyn's smile disappeared. “What price is that, my lord?” she asked, though she could already imagine the answer.

Gríma cleared his throat and stepped forward an inch or so – not enough to be threatening, but enough to make Éowyn wary. “I have made contact with a person of... shall we say, dubious background... in order to obtain some information for the King,” he said, keeping his gaze to the ground. “He has requested that we meet at a certain inn on the outskirts of town. At such a place I would be expected to have a...” He paused and met her eyes at last. “... Companion,” he finished, letting the word sit heavily between them. “Obviously, I have no one who would suit the purpose – unless, of course, you would so kindly oblige me...”

“By being that companion,” Éowyn said flatly.

Gríma straightened, lifting his chin. He almost looked kingly, standing so proudly before her. “It is the safest way for you to enter the city,” he said. “You will be with me, outside of your royal garb. These people have not seen your face before – they will not know you, and they will have less interest in a courtesan than a princess.” His lips curved into a thin smile. “And you did wish to see and do things you had never done before, didn't you, my lady?”

“Do those things include you, my lord?” Éowyn asked, and again cursed herself for her disobedient and wayward tongue. Thought before speech did not come naturally to her, she noted wryly.

Gríma's smile slipped. “They could,” he hedged. “If you wished. But _only_ if you wished.”

_Only if you wished._ The words held such weight, such promise. The allure of this promised rebellion – hers to take, hers to reject – was almost too much to bear. “What would you ask of me, in playing this companion?” she asked, desperate to steady herself.

Gríma shrugged. “You would not be permitted to leave my side,” he said. Éowyn opened her mouth to protest, annoyance overriding her excitement, but Gríma raised a hand. “Not to fear, my lady; I will go with you to see whatever it is you wish to see. I can do my work just as well from any point in the city. You simply cannot go alone.” He paused, licking his lips, tasting the air for her. “And you will, of course, be expected to act much as such a companion might act,” he said. “I will not take advantage of you, but you will need to be believable. Can you do that?”

Rather more boldly than she had thought herself capable, Éowyn closed the distance between them, standing toe to toe with him. “Yes,” she said, staring unblinking into his eyes, surprised at her own certainty. “I can. But how, if I may ask, do you mean to explain this to the King? I am certain he does not know of this little plan. He would never approve of it. How will you convince him of your ever so honorable intentions? It will be you who deals with the brunt of my uncle's wrath, you who will be responsible if I were to disappear. Are you prepared to lose everything in the name of my little adventure?”

Gríma swallowed, hard, but did not step away. “It is not only your adventure, my lady,” he said. “And for you, I would be glad to lose anything. Let me tend to the king and his troubles, as it is my duty to do.”

The words were shockingly tender from a man whom Éowyn had been taught to fear. The change startled her, threw her off balance. “Then consider it done,” she said, before she could think too hard on the foolhardiness of her decision.

Gríma smiled, a slow curl of his lips that was almost wicked. “So be it,” he breathed. “A guard will bring you your garments tonight. Be awake before dawn. We leave before the camp is stirring. If you are late, you will not go. I will collect you myself, when the time comes. Say not a word of this to anyone.”

Éowyn nodded once, a short, jerky gesture. In his turn, Gríma dipped his head in acknowledgment, then stepped back with what seemed quite an exertion of his will. He turned and was gone in the space of a breath, retreating into the darkness and leaving her alone.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grima and Eowyn discuss the politics of Rohan, go for a horseback ride, and wander the streets of the city of Grima's birth.

Gríma half-expected that Éowyn would renege upon their bargain – that she would look upon the garments he had left at her bedside while she slept (fitfully, he noted – was his princess always so anxious even at rest?), and truly comprehend the role that she must play for him. With comprehension would come revulsion, and she would flee, bar her tent against him, wait for him with sword in hand and deny him entrance when he came.

This was what he imagined, when he meant to be asleep. Thoughts of her denial haunted his dreams. He wanted this chance to be alone with her, more desperately than he had any reason to. His own desires frightened him in their intensity; but their futility disturbed him even more. What use had a great lady for a lowly counsellor, no matter how powerful he might become? She would grant herself to better men, stronger men, warriors whose deeds would always outshine Gríma's own.

When he awoke, exhausted and bleary-eyed, just before dawn, he dressed slowly, resigning himself to her rejection and with it, her constant loathing. But she was waiting outside his tent when he emerged to collect her, fully dressed and clear-eyed. Her golden hair hung loose and free, draping over the tightly laced blue bodice of her garb. She looked every inch the weary courtesan, bangles at her wrists and ankles, jewels at her throat. Her eyes were lined in thick, dark kohl, making them look large and luminous.

The sadness contained there was enough to cut him in twain.

She looked up upon hearing the tent flaps part, taking him in with a narrow gaze. He was garbed more informally than usual, in a simple green and gold tunic and wearing a light cloak. Suspicion faded from her face, her interest apparently piqued. “You certainly took your time,” she said, all haughtiness and childish annoyance. She rose from her cross-legged position at his tent's entrance, shaking her skirts free of morning dew. “I've waited nigh an hour.”

“Your pardon, my lady,” Gríma said, his voice cracking. Mornings were never kind to him; the night was his friend, and dawn his natural enemy. “You might have awoken me, if you were so anxious to depart.”

“I considered it,” Éowyn said, stiffly, “But your rest, it seemed, was much disturbed, and any sleep hard-won.”

So Éowyn had crept into his tent to observe him. The thought of her looming over him, uncertain and hesitating, hands fluttering by his face, was unbearably precious. “How... improper of you,” he said, lingering over the word. “Slipping into a man's tent in the dead of night... dare I suggest you are getting into character for the day a tad early?”

“I did not lay a hand upon you,” Éowyn snapped, folding her arms over her chest. Her poor arms... the garb he had given to her was meant to expose her for the pleasure of her lover's eyes, and it bore no sleeves to speak of. Éowyn stood bravely in her thin skirts and thinner chemise, but in the early light of dawn Gríma thought he saw her shiver.

He took a deliberate step towards her, closing his hands about her arms and smoothing his palms over her skin, warming her. He thought that she would shy away – of course she would; his touch was unexpected, unwanted even – but to his surprise she stood still, her lips parting, the sunrise catching in her eyes.

Lord, he had always dreamed of seeing her like this, vulnerable and soft beneath his hands. Her skin was chilled under his fingers, but warmed upon his touch. He could not help but think it, wildly: two steps to the left and they would be in his tent. Two steps, he thought, and he might warm the rest of her. He had furs enough within, and oh, his body was so willing...

“Are you cold, sweeting?” he murmured, the pet name dropping unguarded from his lips, as naturally as if he spoke it every day.

Éowyn stiffened at the word, stepping out from his grip. “You were not thoughtful enough to provide me with a cloak,” she said, brushing past him. Her absent flesh was an ache he felt through every inch of his body, the promise of mere moments prior gone like a wisp of cloud blown awry. “I pity whomever your prior mistress was, to have so thoughtless a keeper.”

The comment struck a nerve, sharp and painful. He turned on his heel and followed after her, clenching his teeth. “She had free reign of all my things, and was better cared for than most,” he said. “Not that she troubled herself to show much gratitude for my kindness.”

Éowyn turned, a small grin dancing on her lips. “So these _did_ belong to another woman,” she said. “And to think I believed you had had them specially made for me. This is indeed a more satisfactory explanation, though one must wonder why you brought the clothes with you in the first place, and what caused the lady in question to leave them behind.”

Gríma cursed, flinching at his mistake. Of course she had meant to goad information from him. He had been a fool to think she would not wonder. “She abandoned them as she abandoned me – in a hurry, and with the promise of finer things from a finer man,” Gríma said. The sudden pity in Éowyn's eyes both unnerved and enraged him. He breathed in once, and out again, recovering his composure. “You cut rather a finer figure in them than she, I must say,” he said, his voice deceptively light. “Much as I had imagined you would.”

Éowyn frowned, her gray eyes turning dark and stormy under the shadow of her lashes. “Is this a thought you entertain often, my lord?” she asked.

Gríma laughed. “Quite often,” he said, “Perhaps even nightly – and ever at odd hours.”

The jab was both unpleasant and unnecessary, and he knew it; but Éowyn's wayward tongue had set off his own. A battle with words was the only battle he could never resist.

If he had thought to offend Éowyn, however, his remark did not have its desired effect. “You allow me clothes in such dreams?” she replied, arching both brows. “How modest. I had expected a much more exposed version of myself to inhabit your darkening hours.”

Gríma glanced towards the naked flesh of Éowyn's arms, tracing the white column of her throat, the slight swell of her breasts beneath her bodice. He licked his lips, snake-like, and forced his frenzied thoughts into stillness. “Having never had the great pleasure of seeing you in such a state, my lady, I should find such visions too fantastical to be worth entertaining,” he said, presenting her with a brief, mocking bow. “I am sure the true glory of your person would diminish the poor fare my mind might conjure.”

Éowyn scoffed. “Your flattery does you no great favors, my lord,” she said. “I am afraid you would find yourself much disappointed, were you ever to look upon my form. It is a freckled, scarred, and blemished mess, take my word on it. Doubtless your prior mistress was much easier on your eyes.”

Truth be told, Gríma hardly remembered the woman's body now; he had banished it from his memory along with thoughts of her when she had fled to be with her warrior. The thought of Éowyn, though, bruised and cut and freckled all over, sent a hot, hungry wave coursing through him. “I very much doubt it,” he said, eyes lingering on the plunging neck of the blue bodice. “I daresay my taste has improved considerably since those days.”

“I shall consider myself honored,” Éowyn said, the words dripping with mockery. “Is it much the same as fashion, then, when a man selects a woman – admire one thing one season, dislike it the next?”

Gríma chuckled and took Éowyn's arm, tugging her none-too-gently to his side. He wanted her warmth against him again, wanted her body near. “Clothing, sweet princess, cannot choose its wearer in its turn,” he said. “Certainly I should be at a loss if such were the case, for no garment would choose me.”

Éowyn cast him a curious glance. “Your mistress chose you,” she said.

“Oh, aye,” Gríma agreed, his voice betraying his anger. “And rejected me just as quickly.” He sighed. “But no matter,” he said. “The comparison is ill-made. I should hope you at least would have rather more say in the matter than a garment, my lady.”

“So should I,” Éowyn said sourly. “But it seems that is too much for a lady of my stature to hope.”

Gríma frowned. “Your uncle would never force you to wed someone you did not desire,” he said.

Éowyn turned her sharp gray gaze to him. “You might,” she said.

The accusation hung between them, a gutting that Gríma felt at his very core. If he was honest with himself, she was not entirely wrong. He longed for her, painfully and unreasonably, and that desire had taken him down dark paths of late. But if she could only see it – that they were already kindred souls, that everything she longed for and desired was his to give to her...

He swallowed. “I am sorry you think so,” he said at last. “But it is not within my power to force your hand. You are, after all, not a garment.” He met her eyes then, staring hard and unblinking. “And not being so, my lady, my interest in you is neither passing nor seasonal. I pray you shall consider that.”

Éowyn broke his stare, hanging her head, allowing her hair to block her expression. “I – shall think on it, my lord.”

It was no promise, Gríma reflected – but at least it was something.

 

* * *

 

Dawn was just breaking when they reached the edge of the camp. The watchers that night were all acquaintances of Gríma's – guards with some association with this corner of Rohan, men Gríma had known from boyhood. He nodded to a few of them as he passed, Éowyn looking up and staring hard into the faces of each one.

“These are your men,” she said.

Gríma arched a brow. “They are kings' men first, my lady,” he said, taking the reins of his horse, Freca, when the beast was brought to him. “Any commands they receive are in the name of the king.”

Éowyn's eyes narrowed. “But they come from your lips,” she replied.

Gríma shrugged. “I speak only that which the king demands,” he said, patting Freca absently upon the neck. Some small part of his Rohirric blood had come through in this, at least; he loved his horse. Horses did not much care about bloodlines or the ability to wield a sword. So long as they were loved and cared for, they were willing to love whomever treated them well.

Éowyn was less interested in his horse and more in him. “You did not post these men at the king's behest,” she accused, folding her arms across her chest. “You chose them specially, did you not – to keep our secret? To hide my disappearance from the king for as long as possible?”

_Clever girl._ “Our secret,” Gríma repeated, smirking, tasting the words. “That does sound lovely, falling so easily from your lips...”

Éowyn huffed, cheeks turning pink. “You are evading the question, my lord,” she snapped. “Do these men do your bidding or no?”

Gríma sighed, shook his head, and turned his back to Éowyn. “If it troubles you so much, my lady, you may stay and report my movements to the king,” he said. He swung himself into the saddle with practiced ease. He turned his eyes upon her, cold and hard and challenging, and smiled. “I shall be sure to return with fascinating tales of what it was you missed while seeking to discredit me, rather than adventuring yourself.”

For an instant, Éowyn stood strong, glowering, her arms still folded over her chest. Gríma sat idle, waiting for her to take the bait. And she would take the bait, he thought – she must. His brave princess might be virtuous and kind, and all that was good in the world, but she would never forgive herself if she gave up this chance to be free from all strictures at last.

A moment later Éowyn seemed to sag, the anger going out of her. Sullenly, she offered Gríma her hand. He smirked, taking the proffered digit. “As I thought,” he said, tugging as Éowyn pulled herself up behind him. He had half-expected her to sit sidesaddle, as a proper lady should, but she merely gathered her skirts and let her legs dangle freely, closing her arms about his waist. He straightened, sucking in his stomach (was that a pot belly he'd begun to grow? Valar forbid it), heat flooding his veins at the intimate touch. Lord, she was so warm, so close... “Temptation overrides virtue at every turn, I find.”

Éowyn made a small sound, a rueful laugh, perhaps. “They did warn me you were the sort to lead maidens astray,” she said, tightening her grip upon him. “Shall I consider my virtue in grave danger?”

He cast her a sly grin. “Only if you consider me a temptation, my lady,” he said, and dug his heels into his horse's side.

 

* * *

 

They rode to the city in silence, Éowyn sulking, Gríma triumphant. Never had a ride been so pleasant for him as this one, Éowyn pressed tightly to his back, her naked legs dangling teasingly within view. The only thing that might have improved the ride was the removal of a few layers between them; his cloak was heavy, and barred him from Éowyn more surely than any handmaiden or guardian might have.

Only one thing could distract him from this new-found delight: the sight of his former home, looming up before him. It was early yet, but the town was alive with people even so, preparing for the day's festivities. The gates were thrown wide to allow visitors to enter, guards planted at the doors to examine passerby and prevent undesirables from passing. Within, people of a hundred different skin tones and hair colors were passing the time – a welcome sight after months of the interminable golden sea in Edoras.

Éowyn craned her neck to get a decent view as they approached. Her breath was warm against his cheek as her lips parted, her grip tightening unexpectedly around him in anticipation. It was precious how soon Éowyn forgot herself in her excitement. “The guards at the door – their faces are painted,” Éowyn said. “Are they...?”

“Dunlendish, my lady,” Gríma said, slowing his horse's pace as they approached. “The paint displays the colors and symbols of their clans.”

He could feel Éowyn's frown against his cheek, though he could not see it. “But one of them is blond,” she said.

This was not a conversation Gríma wanted to have. Half-blood children were common here, though most were fortunate enough not to possess Gríma's coloring. His combination of dark hair, blue eyes, and pale skin made certain he had no place among either party.

Still, Éowyn had little concept of the lives of half-Dunlendish children in Rohan; and he was loath to disappoint her in any form, even in one so small as this. “So he is,” Gríma agreed, “But that means little here. One of his parents no doubt comes from Dunland, or has ancestry there. He would not wear the colors otherwise.”

Éowyn shifted behind him, leaning to his right side now, the better to see the other guard. “How many clans are there in Dunland?” she asked.

Gríma laughed. “Oh, hundreds,” he said. “There are perhaps twenty large clans, but those are broken into smaller clans within. All have their own symbols and stories and traditions – and all enjoy warring with one another, when they cannot be troubled to make war with you.”

Éowyn's frown deepened. “They are a savage lot.”

Fury blossomed in Gríma's chest, a hot, burning anger that spread outward through every vein. “I find, princess, that those who accuse others of being savage often use such words to excuse far worse savagery,” he said coldly.

Éowyn pulled back from at once, stung. “What sort of savagery do you think me capable of committing?” she said. “I have never wronged a Dunlending.”

“Haven't you?” Gríma retorted, his anger rising. “Do you not think it cruel, to accuse a culture of which you have no understanding of violence and primitiveness? You judge an entire people by two sentences and once glimpse of its inhabitants, yet what do you know of Dunland – you who have never even left Edoras before this summer, you have never even troubled yourself to speak to a Dunlending of his home and culture before?”

Éowyn's fingers tightened upon his tunic, a small gasp of surprise escaping her. “I have never had the opportunity – ” she started.

“You most certainly have,” Gríma snapped. “I have lived at Edoras nigh a year now, have I not?”

Éowyn made another sound, something indistinct and alarmed. “But – but your father is of Rohan – you are not one of them!”

Gríma laughed aloud, bitterly, knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip upon the reins. “But I am not one of you, either, am I?” he said. “After all, my mother was of Dunland. So what does that make me, my lady? Where is it you would say I belong?”

Éowyn's only response was silence, heavy with her embarrassment. Her fingers worried at a button on his tunic, rubbing it in agitated circles under her thumb. Some of Gríma's anger cooled at the gesture, and regret at his reaction filled him. His temper had always been quick to flair, and in this strange situation, with Éowyn so close and treating him with such familiarity, it was easy not to maintain the distant facade he desperately needed when she was near.   
  
He cleared his throat and lowered his head, eyes focused on the road. “My apologies, my lady,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “I lost my temper needlessly. You are entitled to your opinions.”

Éowyn's fingers did not still. “No,” she said, “I'm not. You are right to say that I am ignorant of Dunland; I know only what other Rohirrim say of it, and have never much questioned it. I am sorry for my words. They were spoken in haste and without thought.”

Gríma glanced over his shoulder, stunned. Was this some sort of trick? Rohirrim never apologized for their insults. “I – that is...” He trailed off, turned forward again, and frowned. “Thank you,” he said at last, his surprise much clearer than he might have wished.

He did not have much time to think further upon the matter; they had approached the gates, and the guards stepped forward to look him over and approve his entrance into the city. They hardly looked to him – his garb and look were appropriate enough for this city, and they may even have recognized him – but Éowyn they stared at with hard, cold eyes. Even in her courtesan's garb it was apparent that she did not belong here. “Where did you find this one?” one of the guards asked, the once-familiar Dunlendish sounding almost foreign to Gríma's ears, now that he had gone a year without hearing it daily. “She must be strawhead through and through.”

“They do not offer much else in Edoras,” Gríma replied, also in Dunlendish, the words tasting strange upon his tongue.

If the guards had not known who he was before, they certainly did now. Gríma's summons in service to the king had been made much of here, for good or ill. Gríma had already been rising to power in this part of the world, forming alliances with unpleasant sorts, working for men whose names were never spoken but in whispers; but his employment by the King himself, however much the primary body of Rohan was disliked, had made Gríma all the more terrifying in his people's eyes. That he could move in both circles where they could not was a troublesome thought to them; that his influence reached all corners of Rohan now was worse.

Both men exchanged a glance, nodded once, then stepped back to allow him passage, bowing as they went.

_A wise decision,_ Gríma thought with a small sneer. He tossed a coin in their direction, and did not trouble himself to hide his smirk as both men dove for it at once, naked greed upon their faces.

Éowyn turned to watch them as Gríma rode past, her frown dark upon her face. “They are afraid of you,” she said.

Gríma did his best to pretend ignorance. “Oh? Do you think so? I cannot imagine why.”

“Can't you just.” Éowyn turned back to him, and Gríma could feel her gaze upon his back, searching the set of his shoulders for some sort of answer. “There are many men who fear you,” she continued, “Even in Edoras.”

Gríma's smile was cold, but pleased. “Such is the price of power, my lady.”

“I do not think you consider it much of a price, counsellor,” Éowyn said. “I daresay you even seem to enjoy it.”

Gríma glanced over his shoulder to her, arching a brow. “Is that a crime, princess?”

Éowyn pursed her lips. “Some might consider it a fault,” she said.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, my lady, but I am, after all, only a man,” Gríma said, releasing the reins with one hand and catching her hand in his. “And men, as you doubtlessly know, are full of faults. You shall find me much the same as others in that regard.”

Éowyn straightened against his back, her cold fingers cupped in his palm. “Some – ” she started.

Gríma heaved a sigh, and tugged her arm more tightly about his waist, pulling her flat against him. She gasped, and Gríma imagined the indignant expression in her eyes, the perfect pink flush of her cheek. “This may shock you, _deorling_ , but the opinions of _some_ are very much irrelevant to me,” he said, running his thumb over her knuckles. “Your personal regard for me is the only opinion I place much value upon. The rest is – _useful,_ but immaterial.”

Éowyn's grip tightened upon him, her discomfort and curiosity nearly as physical and real as her slight body. “Well, if it is my voice only that you shall heed, then know that I do not consider it wise to rule by fear,” she said. “People are happier to obey one they love and admire.”

“That is all very well for _you_ ,” Gríma laughed, “But I have found it ineffective to depend upon the love of the inconstant for power.”

Éowyn inhaled sharply as he ran a thumb over the back of her hand, tracing the delicate bones there as a lover might. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

Gríma flinched at the alarm in her tone, and released her hand at once. “Lest you forget your role, Éowyn, you are no princess here,” he said. His voice was wounded even to his own ears. “You did promise to act accordingly... did you not?”

Éowyn's blush must have run the length of her body; Gríma swore he felt the heat of her rise for just an instant against his back. “Oh,” she said, her voice very small. “Yes, I – of course.” She pressed closer and settled her chin upon his shoulder. The gesture was precious. It spoke of a familiarity Gríma had yet to properly attain with Éowyn – a familiarity he longed to achieve.

Gríma wondered, for an instant, if there was another man whom she rode with like this, whose shoulder she leaned upon so sweetly; but the thought only enraged him. _No,_ he thought, gripping the reins like they were his imagined competitor's throat. _No other man can touch you. You are going to be mine_ _._

Éowyn drew him back to earth with a slight tilt of her head. “The people's love is not inconstant,” she said, shifting to press her leg closer to his. “True, it must be earned, but once given it is not easily revoked.”

Gríma laughed, shaking his head. “That is easy for you to say, _deorling,_ ” he said. “You are everything they would wish to love and more. You are beautiful and tragic; you ride well and fight well; you sing beautifully and are the image of kings and queens in times long past. What is there in you that is unworthy of love?”

Éowyn wrinkled her nose. “There is much of me that is unlovable,” she said. “But you have not known me long enough to realize it – or have not yet looked closely enough to find my faults.”

Gríma gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, I've looked closely,” he said. “And it is true you are not faultless. You are impatient, brash, nearly incapable of holding your tongue, ever reluctant to smile, prideful and not a little self-centered.”

“Thank you,” Éowyn said, a peevish frown curling her lips. “Truly, my lord, you outdo yourself in your compliments.”

Gríma smiled to himself. “You know as well as any that I might gladly pay you compliments until the moon sinks from the sky,” he said. “But you do not appreciate flattery for its own sake, and your ego does not demand soothing. I say these things only to add that your faults do not make you unlovable, as you seem to believe.”

Éowyn tilted her head closer, leaning against his throat, brushing his ear with her hair. Heat burned beneath his skin, a painful longing tearing at his heart. _Would that you would touch me like this every day hereafter._ “You are kind to say so,” Éowyn said, her breath warm against his collar. “But you'll forgive me if I doubt you. Men can be notoriously blind where the objects of their desire are concerned.”

_I would have far more than simple desire,_ Gríma thought, gritting his teeth. _I would wake to you every morning and take you to bed each night. I would have you on my arm forever._ “Grant me the chance to see you more clearly, then, princess,” he said. “Open yourself to me, and see if my mind is changed by whatever dark faults you claim your spirit holds.”

The implications of his words were not lost on Éowyn – but it was plain that she would not give him any response. She sat up, leaving only one arm about Gríma's waist, turning to look around as if she had spotted something very interesting in the midst of his sentence. “Where are we going?” she asked, staring down some passerby who paused to glare at her bright blond head.

Gríma rolled his eyes heavenward. “Pretending I did not speak does not make what I said a flight of your fancy,” he said. “But very well, if you wish to avoid such topics of discussion – I need only stable my horse, and then you shall have the adventure I promised you.”

Éowyn hummed to life behind him, shifting eagerly. Sometimes, Gríma thought, she reminded him very much of an impatient child, too wild and excitable to be contained. “Is it far?” she asked, turning to stare even further behind them as they passed through the streets.

Gríma reached back and caught her wrist, tugging her back to him with no small amount of irritation. _You are not here for them. You are here for me. Look to_ _ **me**_. “It's generally considered rude to stare, my lady. And no, it isn't, thankfully – else it appears you'd gladly jump horse and leave me here alone while you ran off to die, equally alone, somewhere on these streets.”

Éowyn muttered something under breath, doubtless an insult of some kind, but settled against him once more, clutching him around the ribs rather tighter than necessary. _Think you that this is a punishment? Clutch me as tightly as you like, sweet lady._

“It doesn't _look_ dangerous,” Éowyn said, defiance lacing her voice.

Gríma half-smiled, turning towards the inn and tavern where he meant to stable his horse. “Of course it doesn't,” he said, “But then, my lady, neither do you.”

All of Éowyn's irritation towards him seemed to melt in a rush. Her grip upon him tightened in an entirely different fashion, and she leaned into his neck with something like a laugh, her cheek warm against what skin was exposed. “No wonder you seem to like both of us so much, then,” she said, her breath hot against his throat.

Gríma's thoughts scrambled to collect themselves, his fingers tightening upon the reins. He had not expected her to respond with such warmth. His mind lingered on the imagined pleasure of her mouth against his skin, teeth and tongue scraping over the arc of his neck... “I have made rather a habit of courting danger, it seems,” he managed, his mouth very dry. “A poor habit at that, for someone who does not particularly like risking his own neck.”

Éowyn shifted, pressing her nose against his shoulder, almost – _almost –_ kissing his back through his cloak. “Please,” she said, tracing the embroidery at the front of his tunic with gentle, teasing fingers. “You _love_ risking your own neck. So long as you might find a way to rig the odds in your favor, nothing delights you more than a game of chance.”

“Oh?” Gríma entered the inn's stable with some disappointment; things were only just now beginning to grow interesting. “Are you part of such a game, my lady?”

“Oh, certainly,” she said, her voice bright and full of laughter. “A woman who could kill you as soon as look at you, with a brother and cousin who despise you, and with royal blood where you possess none. I daresay you chose where to place your heart rather hastily, my lord.”

Gríma glanced over his shoulder, admiring the teasing smile upon her lips. “If you think I had any choice in the matter, my lady, then you haven't been paying attention,” he said. “Your battered and bloodied self ripped the heart straight from my chest the instant I laid eyes upon you – and you have not relinquished it since.”

The words seemed to sober her. Her smile faded, replaced with wide-eyed surprise. Gríma cursed his wayward tongue and turned away, freeing himself from the saddle and leaping to the ground as a servant took the horse's reins from him. Being so close to her had made him incautious. Laying his heart so open for her was a risk he could not afford to take again.

But he would do it again, before the day was over. Of course he would. He had one day in which to woo her, in which she was his and his alone; he could not afford to keep his secrets, either. He could risk his heart or lose it forever. There was no middle ground.

“Well?” Gríma said, offering her his hands. “Do you mean to sit upon the horse all day, or would you prefer to join me? Despite what you may think, I am far more interesting company than Freca.”

Éowyn arched a brow at the horse's name. “I ought not to be surprised, that you would thusly name your poor steed,” she said. “I would inquire your purpose in such a name, but we have played enough at politics for today, I think.” She swung one leg over the horse's side and held out her arms, laying her hands upon his shoulders. Gríma set his hands upon her slim waist, supporting her as she came down, her skirts sliding indecently high as she slipped free of Freca. Gríma caught a glimpse of freckles and a few long, silvery scars upon her calves before the skirts fell, regrettably, back into place.

“Where do you mean to take me first?” she asked, stepping out of his hands.

_Against the wall there would do nicely,_ Gríma thought, but bit his tongue, hard, before the words could escape him. Instead, he offered her his arm and said, “I leave that to your discretion, my lady. There is little within these walls I have not seen a hundred times already.”

Éowyn accepted his arm after a hesitant moment, laying her fingers against his sleeve. In court they were always separated from one another by at least a few inches, Gríma ever bowing out of her way in corridors, Éowyn ever shifting as he rose to pass her by in court. Her nearness now was intoxicating. He had never noticed her perfume before now – some sort of flower, he thought, though not simbelmyne. No, it was something wilder and stranger; some bloom that unfurled itself in darkness, bathing in the light of the moon.

He bit the inside of his cheek, forcing his thoughts to the present. Now was not the time for such wild fancies. Éowyn was here, real and present and close; and if he meant to have her, this day must be precisely what she had dreamed of. He studied her face, hoping for some sort of hint as to her desires – but she kept her eyes resolutely upon the ground, her cheeks tinged pink, as they started for the main road. “I know not what the city offers,” she said, looking up just long enough to meet the eyes of a scarred passerby. “Nor what this festival has brought here. Perhaps you might enlighten me, my lord.”

She was all formality again, despite her closeness. Some part of her had closed down at his remark. He cursed himself again in every tongue he knew. How to repair the damage he had done?

A flash of metal caught his eye. A nearby swordsmith had opened his tent to the air, displaying hundreds of magnificent blades – artfully patterned, some with Rohirric designs upon their hilts, and some far stranger, bearing dragons and dwarves and great hulking beasts of all kinds. _Yes. Perfect._ Such delights, Gríma was certain, Éowyn would never be able to resist.

He released her arm and caught her by the shoulders, turning her firmly about. “You might, perhaps, find what you desire just there,” he said, watching her face carefully.

Éowyn's eyes widened, large and childlike at the display. “Oh,” she gasped, a small intake of breath. She caught her skirts and tore out from under his hands, leaping through pedestrians and horses alike to reach the beautiful weapons. Gríma followed at a short distance, more cautious than she, wearing an ever-growing smile as she lifted one of the blades reverently in her hands – one bearing the image of a mighty fire-drake upon its blade. Its polished surface reflected her face, her gray eyes mirroring its glistening blade in turn. His fierce warrior could not be won by traditional means – but give her a weapon, he thought, and she would be soft clay in his hands, willingly shaped to his desires.

Gríma stopped and watched her with a small, knowing smile, drinking in the sight of her: joyous and breathless, her hand upon the flat of the blade, stroking tender fingers over its cool surface like she might touch a lover. She was everything he had ever longed for in that instant – and he had made it so.

In the far recesses of his tent, the swordsmith shifted, drawing Gríma's attention from Éowyn. The swordsmith arched both eyebrows as Éowyn tested the blade in the air, a smile of pure, sensuous delight upon her face. The smith turned to Gríma as he entered the tent and nodded to Éowyn incredulously. “Your whore has an unusual enthusiasm for blades, my lord,” he said in Dunlendish. “With such warlike joy comes a warlike temperament, they say.”

Gríma lifted a simple, lethal-looking dagger, its cold blade tongued and bearing no ornament to speak of. He smirked, turning the blade in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. “I find a fiery temperament reveals an equally fiery passion,” he replied, also in Dunlendish. _At least, I imagine that it does. The truth of the matter yet remains to be seen... but one day, I will know._

The smith grinned broadly, wearing a knowing smirk offering a bow. “Well, my lord, you are certainly a braver man than I, to have the keeping of such a woman,” he said. “But at least you are well-rewarded for it. Perhaps you might buy her something lovely to appease her temper and please your eye.” He scurried to a corner of his tent and withdrew from it a beautiful hair pin – or so it at first appeared. “Be wary of your hand,” the smith said, handing the small blade over. “It wears an innocent face, but its point is sharp as any knife. Not as grand as my other work, perhaps, but it is a pretty toy for a pretty woman.”

Gríma held the bauble aloft, admiring its blade and handle, the neat craftsmanship that made it appear so harmless. He glanced over his shoulder to Éowyn, who was only just then returning the blade to its place. She turned, still wide-eyed and smiling, and caught a glimpse of the small dagger in his hand. If it were possible, her eyes glowed the brighter at the sight. “Is that – ”

“A dagger for my lady's hair?” The switch to Rohirric felt almost unnatural, here in his home city. Gríma smiled and held it out to her. “Indeed it is.”

Éowyn made a small sound of delight and bounded across the tent to him, lifting the blade from him with gentle hands. “It's _beautiful,_ ” she whispered, reverent as any worshiper. “I asked my brother for one of these once, but he said I was dangerous enough without a weapon upon my person at all times.”

Gríma raised his eyes heavenward at the mention of Éomer, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Thank the Valar the ass had been forced to stay at home. “He was right enough, I suppose,” Gríma said, grudgingly, “But my lady deserves to be granted whatever she desires.”

Éowyn bit her lower lip, fingers stroking the blade with painful longing. Swallowing, she handed the dagger back to Gríma with no small amount of regret. “It's beautiful,” she said again, resigned, it seemed, to never owning it.

Gríma caught her wrist and turned her about, sweeping up some of her long hair and tucking the blade into place. It shined there, bright silver among Éowyn's golden curls, as deadly and beautiful as she. _Yes,_ he thought, _It was meant for her; this gift shall suit her well._ “How much?” he asked in Dunlendish, his voice even and light.

The smith grinned, spreading his hands. “Can one place a price on a lady's joy, my lord?” he asked.

“No,” Gríma replied, smoothing Éowyn's hair over the hidden blade. “But one certainly can place a price on a shiny bit of metal – albeit a low one.”

The smith scoffed, prepared to haggle – but Gríma was in no mood. Besides, he had been conspiratorial enough with this peasant; it was long past time to remind the man of who Gríma ws. Gríma glanced sharply in the smith's direction, catching the lesser man's eyes and holding them. Gríma's stare, direct, cold, and unyielding, rarely failed him; it had unnerved stronger men than this one, and it would do its work again.

The smith opened his mouth. Made a sound. Seemed to shrink. Beneath Gríma's hands, Éowyn shifted, touching fingers to the blade in her hair, unaware of the silent exchange. Sweet, innocent girl. “Gríma – ” she said, a half-hearted protest.

The smith's eyes grew huge at Éowyn's pronouncement of Gríma's name, another strangled cry escaping his lips. “Lord Counsellor?” he stuttered, stepping back, as if praying that the shadows would swallow him.

Gríma smiled thinly. “Indeed.”

The smith glanced at the pretty trinket in Éowyn's hair. His throat bobbed as he swallowed his fear. He seemed to decide that a bauble's price was not worth his life and the ruination of his business, and closed his mouth. “Ten _tharni_ should do, my lord,” he muttered, gesturing to the pin.

“How generous,” Gríma drawled. He laid a hand upon Éowyn's shoulder, his thumb smoothing over the bare skin of her arm. “The tongued blade as well – for a gold piece.”

The smith nodded mutely and handed the requested blade over. “An excellent choice, my lord,” he said. “I thank you for your custom. You do me much honor.”

Gríma smirked and took the blade from the smith's hands. “I rather think I do,” he said. He reached into his purse and withdrew the required coins, removing his hand from Éowyn's shoulder and allowing it to slide across her back as he moved towards the smith. Éowyn turned, lips parted, and watched him as he went, reaching up to touch the blade set in her hair.

Gríma pressed the coins into the smith's upturned palm and met the man's eyes again. “These are beautiful blades,” he said, his voice soft in the quiet of the tent. “Those who matter in this country may, in the future, require services such as yours.”

The smith straightened to attention, sweat beading upon his brow. “My lord?”

Gríma smiled to himself, removing his hand and turning to lock his new blade onto his belt. “Do you have a name, smith?”

The man swallowed. “Brandr, my lord,” he said. “At your service.”

Gríma's smile widened. “One day, perhaps, you will be.” He nodded shortly and turned in a flurry of velvet, catching Éowyn's hand in his. “Thank you, Brandr, for providing me with such a fine gift for my lady,” he said over his shoulder. “I shall not soon forget it.”

Brandr made another sound, perhaps a plea, perhaps a response; but it did not matter now. Gríma left the tent behind, and placed the smith's name at the back of his thoughts. Such men would prove instrumental in his future plans; but he would have time to think on that. Now – now, at last, again – he could bend his thoughts upon Éowyn again.

She was flushed and smiling, fingers still tracing the pretty new addition to her hair. “Thank you,” she said, blushing a pretty shade of pink. “You did not need to give me such a gift.” She cast him a mildly disapproving glance. “I pray you did not frighten the poor smith half to death for it.”

Gríma laughed, caught Éowyn's fingers, and raised them to his lips, pressing a heated kiss to her hand. “I'm certain he will survive,” he said. “And as to your gift – it was an honor to give it to you, my lady, and my great pleasure.” He met her eyes, just for an instant, and watched them darken with a sudden heat, cheeks flushing an even deeper red. He swallowed a small exclamation of triumph. The distraction had worked. Éowyn was pleased – and once again responding to him.

This day, he thought, might win him his princess yet.

 


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grima and Eowyn attend an entertainment of dubious morality.

Éowyn was in love.

Not with Gríma – it was too soon for such feelings, if she might ever feel them at all. Not with the town, either, for it was dirty and small and collapsing in upon itself, streets crowded and overshadowed by buildings falling into disrepair. What she loved was the day itself, though it had only just begun: the absolute and utter _freedom_ she felt, for Gríma denied her nothing, and no one else was there to stop her from doing as she pleased.

She touched the dagger now concealed in her hair, and smiled a secret smile, pressed comfortably against Gríma's side. Here, she was a woman with no title, a courtesan with no expectation but to be beautiful and affectionate – and this she could easily play at while in such good cheer. Gríma had made it simple to adore him, for now. Gone was his deference, the obsequious whispers that were his trademark in her uncle's company. Alone, he was confident and relaxed with her – sly as ever, of course, but more himself than he had ever been in court.

She could love a man like this, she thought. She could worship him.

Éowyn stiffened at the thought and banished it at once to the very depths of her subconscious. She did not need such complications. This was one day and one day only: a pleasure in which she would revel for the brief time it was granted to her. When they returned to camp, all would be exactly as it had been, and this but a happy dream for darker days, when winter fell and Meduseld's walls closed in about her once again, as they always did.

She shook the image from herself with a shudder and squirmed under Gríma's arm. “I'm starving,” she said, aware of how petulant she sounded. “You had not the forethought to bring me breakfast.”

Gríma scoffed. “Poor put-upon Éowyn,” he said, casting her a mocking pout. “However shall you survive an hour or two without a great feast laid out for you? It must be terrible for you to live as peasants do, and go hungry for a time. I ought, I suppose, to have had more care for your delicate disposition. Shall you swoon away in a moment without a single morsel to fill your empty stomach?”

Éowyn pressed her lips into a thin line. “Are you quite finished, counsellor?” she asked. “Or would you care to tease me further?”

“Oh, I would not _dream_ of wounding my poor lady's tender feelings,” Gríma said, pressing his free hand to his chest. “However should I forgive myself the breaking of your precious heart, and over so small a thing as breakfast?”

Éowyn pursed her lips “I don't think I deserved quite so thorough a tongue-lashing,” she muttered.

“No? Hmm. I very much disagree.” Gríma's lips twitched into a secret smile, but whatever thought had stirred him to it, he did not give it voice.

Éowyn squinted up at him. “You're smirking,” she said. “I don't like it when you smirk. You're thinking something unpleasant, no doubt, and will not share the notion with me.”

Gríma would not look at her for love nor money. “Highness, were I to share my thought with you, I would receive far worse than a lashing by tongue,” he said.

Éowyn wished to press him further, for she knew with certainty now that something forbidden lay in Gríma's mind – and she wanted, more than anything, to do forbidden things today. But she smelled something delicious a moment later, and her indignation was instantly forgotten. “What _is_ that?” she asked, turning at once towards the scent. She slipped out from under Gríma's arm and caught his hand, dragging him after her towards an open tent – the source of the smell, she thought.

“Apparently, it will be breakfast,” Gríma said. “No need to pull so hard, Éowyn, I've no intention of letting you escape me today.”

_Escape?_ Éowyn paused, raising an eyebrow. _How ominous a phrase. And you were doing so well._ “Am I to be your prisoner then, my lord?” she asked, her voice as venomous as his had been only moments prior. “Is it to be a jailer's rations for me – a crust of bread and a cup of water for the counsellor's lowly companion?”

Gríma laughed again and cupped her face in his hands. “You are truly precious, my lady,” he said, palms pressed against her cool cheeks. “You are no prisoner. We shall see you fed and watered in a moment.”

She smiled, unconsciously leaning into his touch – nuzzling against his fingers like an affectionate horse might. Gríma's breath caught at the gesture, and Éowyn flinched back from him. _You are a lady of the court; you cannot be touched._ _A line of kings lies in your womb. You cannot be touched. You_ _ **cannot**_ _be touched._

Éowyn swallowed the taste of bile in her throat. She longed to scream, to rebel, to fling herself wholeheartedly into Gríma's arms – but she could not. A thousand voices cried out in warning, speaking of duty, of honor, of the blood of Eorl. _Do not sully your kingdom's house. You are a maiden yet. Be one until you are wed._

She closed her eyes, feeling Gríma's gaze grow heavy upon her. _I hate this._

Gríma must have sensed the change, for he instantly smoothed his thumb over her cheekbone, stepping an inch closer to her. She could feel the heat of him through her skirts, every bared plane of her skin painfully aware of him. “You are always so sad, Highness,” he murmured. It was his counsellor's voice again, she realized – the voice he used upon her uncle. _I am here to listen,_ it said. _I am here to lift your burden._ “It comes upon you even in your brightest hour. Why? What can so trouble your thoughts now as to turn your joy to sorrow?”

This change, Éowyn did not like. Things had become so free and easy between them as they rode together to this place, and Éowyn had felt blessedly at ease. The tone he used now, though, reminded her of all that she was attempting to leave behind – the court, the king, the never-ending game men like Gríma played for her hand. Éowyn opened her eyes and looked through him, and hoped her gaze was piercing. “I liked you better, my lord, when you were yourself,” she said. “This counsellor's facade wins you no favors.”

He had been studying her with a detached air, waiting for her response – but her reply must have startled him, for his grip loosened upon her, his thumb freezing just beneath her eye. “I've no idea what you mean,” he said.

Éowyn sighed and caught Gríma's wrist, pulling his hand away from her face. The other fell away a moment later, stroking her skin as it withdrew, as if he could not bear to be parted from her. “I do not like dishonesty,” Éowyn said, turning her back to him. “Nor do I care much for courtly games. If you would have me admire you, my lord, then know I would much rather have the truth of you than a pretty lie you tell to win my heart's affection.”

He laughed, but the sound was bitter and angry this time, lacking all the good humor of his previous laughter. “You say that now,” he said, “But if you knew my heart you would most certainly despise me.”

Éowyn glanced over her shoulder. “Do you now make my decisions for me, my lord?” she asked. “At least give me the chance to decide for myself what to think of you.”

He had been frozen behind her, but he followed after her now, matching her stride as she walked. “You have known enough of me this morning, I should think, to have some opinion of the matter.”

Éowyn shrugged, drawing to a halt beside a tent piled high with fruit. Tarts were baking within – the smell Éowyn had caught but a few moments before. Her mouth watered, and she breathed in deeply of their scent, tasting the buttery crust and sweet, tangy fruit upon her tongue. “I like you better today than I did yesterday,” she said. “Is that enough?”

She did not feel him slip up behind her, nor was she much aware of his proximity for a long moment; the smell of food overwhelmed her, and her stomach growled loudly as she closed her eyes and drew in a second breath, relishing in the imagined taste of the tarts.

Then Gríma had her about the waist, her slim form pulled insistently back against him. The dagger at his belt dug into her back, and Éowyn gasped aloud, whirling in his arms to look at him.

She realized instantly that to turn had been a mistake: his face was mere inches from her own, close enough to kiss. A foolish notion, Éowyn told herself: he would not dare. But his gaze lingered upon her lips, caressing them without laying a hand upon her.

“It will suffice...” he said, barely audible above the crowd. “For now.”

Éowyn opened her mouth, but found no words with which to reply. Her tongue stuttered and stumbled and yet gave her nothing, and she blushed furiously, hating herself for an instant. _Lackwit._

If Gríma thought her such, though, his expression did not indicate it; he merely smiled to himself and released her, striding into the tent and offering coins to the baker there in exchange for a tart. Éowyn watched the transaction with a wary stare, wrapping her arms about herself .

She was not sure what game she was playing with Gríma, but she was certain now that she was toying with a line she ought not to cross.

_Too late for that, you silly girl – you've laid yourself a fine trap, and despite your best intentions, you **like** it._

Gríma reappeared before her before she had further time to ponder, carrying a fruit tart. Éowyn's brows furrowed, a question ready at her lips: _will my lord not eat as well? Do you not hunger as mortal men do?_ But he spoke before the words could come, offering her the tart with a small flourish.

“Here,” he said. “To sate my lady's hunger.”

Éowyn's stomach made an unpleasant noise, and she licked her lips, gratefully reaching for the tart. “Thank - ”

Just before she could take it from him, Gríma pulled back, the fruit tart hanging just out of reach of her hand. He quashed a rising smirk, tilting his head in a mockery of a bow. “Unless, of course, my lady sees something she would like better?” he said.

It sounded so innocent at first blush – but Éowyn knew him now, knew that dark gleam in his eye. He intended nothing innocent by the remark. _Bastard. Well, two can play this game._ “What else would you feed me, my lord?” she asked, with practiced innocence. “Such wares as are offered here will hardly sate my appetite.”

Gríma brought the tart closer again, hanging temptingly near her lips. “You would be most pleasantly surprised, I think, by what is offered.”

Now she was _certain_ he was implying something filthy. A shock of heat spiked in her veins, curling outward to her very toes. “Do you think so?” she said. “Hmm. I would I had your certainty – and your great gift to choose my wares more freely.”

With that, she snatched the tart from Gríma's hand, dancing away from him at his outraged cry. “Not fair,” he said, following after her. “You ended the game so soon. Afraid you might not win this battle, my lady?”

Éowyn grinned and flounced away, beaming over her shoulder. “I was not aware we were at war, my lord,” she said. “But as you have declared it so... consider this engagement mine.”

So pronouncing, Éowyn paused and bit into the tart with relish. Flavor burst upon her tongue, tangy and sweet and sugary; and Éowyn tilted her head back at once, a small moan of delight escaping her.

It was, she admitted to herself, only a _little_ unintentional how much it sounded like desire.

Gríma's breath hitched in his throat, coming in a painful rasp – and now, Éowyn thought, grinning broadly as she swallowed, she had the truth of him. He did not simply want. He _craved._ He ached and burned and _needed,_ and the flare of lust in his eyes at the sound of her cry sent an answering heat through her.

It was... _powerful_ , being desired. This man, who made a mockery of her brother and cousin and sneered down upon her countrymen, who controlled everything and everyone in Edoras with words instead of weapons – this man, who was so powerful and feared, was hers to command. He would fall upon his knees before her and beg her for release – would do anything, Éowyn thought, to earn that favor from her.

It was a heady brew, being beginning and end to such a man.

Éowyn licked her lips and took another bite, letting Gríma's gaze linger upon her mouth. “Shall we go, my lord?” she asked. “This is surely not all you meant to allow me to see.”

Gríma worked his jaw, whetting his lips. “No indeed, my lady,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “I would deny you nothing except your sadness today. If you wish to move on, so we shall.” He was silent for a moment, a small smirk growing upon his mouth. “I expect,” he concluded, “That you will see many things you had never imagined before the day is done.”

_There you are again, my lord: teasing and implying, toying without offering. You think yourself subtle, I imagine, but I see you._ She took a third bite of her tart, chewing it thoughtfully, and returned to his side, staring up into his face. “Is that a promise?”

Gríma swallowed and laid his arm at her hip “Consider it my solemn vow,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Gríma kept his word to her, though perhaps not in the way he had initially intended. They walked the stalls together and admired the wares that were offered – everything from jewelry, to clothes, to saddles and sheaths, to scrolls and strange potions from distant lands. Éowyn perused these wares with the enthusiasm of a child, running back to Gríma with each new discovery. Gríma seemed bored by everything, but Éowyn's delight brought him some small measure of joy – he smiled at her often, pausing occasionally to touch her hair or run his fingers over her back.

He saw nothing, she guessed, that he wanted here so much as her; and secretly, the notion thrilled her.

Éowyn noticed as the day went on that she was interrupting him mid-conversation more and more often. He spoke with the locals in low tones, ever in Dunlendish and never in a tongue she knew. What stories they exchanged she could not guess, and he would not tell, though she asked once or twice. It was left to her to imagine what they spoke of, and in her head Éowyn told herself stories of the dangerous information Gríma gathered: tales of war and betrayal and spies throughout the land, which he would whisper later to her uncle when all the camp was quiet.

He was a hero of a sort, she supposed – albeit not the kind she had ever thought much of.

Despite his apparent boredom with the place he had once called home and the work that he was doing, Gríma stopped often to point things out to Éowyn that she might otherwise have missed. “To your left, my lady,” he said, turning her firmly about. “The man with the sword. I think you will regret missing him.”

Éowyn watched in awe as the performer took a thin blade and slid it straight down his throat, holding it there and removing it with a flourish, to a smattering of applause. The next instant he was twirling fire in his palms, lifting a burning torch and sliding this down his throat too, breathing fire out onto the crowd like a dragon. Éowyn gasped and applauded for him. “How can any mortal man perform a trick such as that?” she asked, turning back to Gríma with shining eyes.

“Carefully, I should think,” Gríma replied. He had been looking elsewhere during the performance, Éowyn gathered – towards a stall off in the distance. Seeking his next target, perhaps. “Shall we move on?”

Éowyn pursed her lips and took his arm, leaning against his side. “You are like a dark and miserly thundercloud, my lord. Have you no joy, no wonder left for such sights?”

When she looked to him, he was staring, his gaze intent upon her. “I take my joy not in cheap illusions, but in things deserving of my admiration,” he said. “Yet if it pleases you, Highness, then it pleases me as well.”

She arched a brow, wearing an incredulous face. “How agreeable of you,” she said. “What else is my lord's pleasure, I wonder?”

Gríma clicked his tongue, his eyes wandering from hers. “Do not ask questions to which you would not have true answers, lady mine,” he said.

“Oh _ho._ ” Éowyn grinned and extricated herself from him, skipping in front of him. “I shall have to get you away from court more often, my lord. You are refreshingly honest out of reach of others' eyes.”

He looked back to her with a leer. “Mmm... I do like the sound of that,” he said. “And what excuse shall you provide for my absence, my lady, and whither shall we go? You must know already how glad I am to keep company with you at any hour.”

_At any hour – or especially at night, when all the house is abed? Remember, Éowyn, you cannot be touched. You cannot be touched._

Éowyn was abruptly aware that she was getting carried away. In a matter of hours he had turned her wariness to trust and set her heart at ease. She felt – _free_ ; relaxed and comfortable at his side, as if she was _meant_ to be there. Yet now she was aware once again of the dangers he presented, and she drew her courtly manners about her like a cloak, turning away with an airy wave. “If it is your intent to woo me, my lord, I am afraid you shall be asked to follow the traditional channels,” she said.

Gríma could not suppress his sneer at that. “With guards and handmaids and servants beside us at all times, to make certain no impropriety occurs?” he said. “I hesitate to note it, Highness, but it is rather too late for such trivialities – for here we are, after all, and very much alone. What would your _traditional channels_ have to say about that, I wonder?”

_Oh, lord, do not ask me. I cannot even think of it._ “These are lovely,” she said, too brightly, pausing at a tent filled with silken scarves.

Gríma stepped up behind her, leaning in close. “You do have a terrible habit of ignoring things you wish I had not said,” he told her. “But if you must change the subject – yes, it is quite pretty, though I should prefer my lady in green.”

Éowyn turned back to him, holding the scarf in her hand. “And yet you dressed me in blue,” she noted, raising the dark blue sash. “Blue suits me. You agree, although you are apparently unaware of it.”

He laughed. “I ought, I suppose, to have gowned you in white, given your title.”

Éowyn wrinkled her nose, returning the silk to its place upon the tent's wall. “The White Lady,” she said, tasting venom on her tongue. “Pure and bright and unsullied. It is rather unsuited for the game we play today, is it not, Gríma?”

He tilted his head, his eyes shining at the sound of his name upon her lips. “Such bitterness,” he said, laying a hand upon her naked shoulder. His palm was warm and soft as it made circles upon her skin – the hands of a courtier and not a warrior. Éowyn thought of her own scabby palms and wondered if he would enjoy their touch half as much. “What a cage this kingdom holds you in.”

Éowyn flinched. A cage it was, and the manacles grew tighter every day – but here at least, she need not think of it for awhile. Here, she was free to do as she chose. “I have slipped through the bars for today, at least,” she said. “I will have that, I suppose, when we return to camp.”

Gríma's grip upon her shoulder tightened. “I can give you more than a single day, Highness, if you allow me.”

_Gods, Gríma, do not tempt me._ Instead of answering, she slipped away from him and moved out into the street once more, holding out her hand for him to take. He grasped it at once and closed his fingers through hers, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “You are ignoring me again,” he said, “And thus I must assume I have discomfited you. A subject change must be in order. Would you, perhaps, care to see some of the violence and brutality your family so greatly desired to protect you from?”

Éowyn blinked _,_ surprised out of her rising black mood. “I – I suppose... if you should think it wise...”

He grinned and tugged at her hand. “Wise? Never,” he said. “But a pleasure – most certainly. Come.”

 

* * *

 

There was a gathering just outside the town, in the opposite direction of the camp. Here at last Éowyn saw why her uncle had wished to avoid this place: for there were men and women from the lowest walks of life here, wearing tattered hides and bearing long scars upon their skin, armed to the teeth. They stared at Gríma as he passed, hardly looking twice at Éowyn – she was, after all, but Gríma's mistress to them, a useless target.

She expected one of them to move in at any moment, but every last one of them seemed to recognize Gríma instantly, and none of them troubled him as he guided her towards dark and unkempt stables.

“What is this?” Éowyn asked, leaning heavily against his side. She was not afraid, but she was wary; Gríma was capable of much, but his skill in battle she very much doubted. Eyes prickled upon her back, and Éowyn took to noting the positions of every man or woman she passed, lest any think to attack from behind. She curled her fingers about the knife at Gríma's hip and left them there, prepared to cut anyone who came too close.

Gríma felt her hand settle at the dagger and smiled.

“It is... a race of sorts,” he said. “Not the clean kind you have seen in other cities. All weapons are permitted. Men who participate often die, but champions are held in honor.”

“And women who participate?” Éowyn could not help the question; she could not imagine that a woman had never tried to enter such a contest, especially here, where all laws and strictures seemed to be less _rules_ and more _suggestions._

“There have been a few,” Gríma said. “I am afraid I shall have to refuse you if you attempt to join their ranks, however, so please don't trouble yourself to ask.”

“I would not think to dream it,” Éowyn said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I have not forgotten that today my purpose is merely to be pretty.”

Gríma chuckled. “Your hand at my waist says otherwise, _deorling._ ”

Éowyn scowled, tightening her grip upon the dagger. “ _Someone_ must keep us safe here, my lord,” she said, “And it most certainly will not be you.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I thank you for your protection, Éowyn – but I assure you, it is not necessary. My name alone is shield enough for us.”

Éowyn cast him a sidelong glance. “Should I fear for my life, my lord?” she asked. “Have you, perchance, committed murder in the past? Stolen, thieved, razed houses to the ground? What is it about you that so terrifies everyone we encounter?”

He met her eyes and held them, searching her for something. “Do you not fear me also, sweeting?”

Éowyn frowned, pondering the notion for a moment. Did she fear Gríma? She had always felt an icy chill deep in her heart when she looked to him – but she had also always been drawn to him, as a child fascinated by the monster beneath her bed.

That the monster wished to be _in_ her bed had always been a matter of more pressing concern, 'til now.

“My personal regard for you has no bearing upon your past,” she said at last. “I know not what sins you have committed here to make your name strike terror. But it alarms me that such a man has come into my uncle's service. I must question what your purpose is, and what you intend by rising to such heights.”

Gríma stopped before the stable's doors, looking straight into her face. “My goal, Highness, is no less than the total destruction of Rohan,” he said. “And to have you afterward, of course – my fair and winsome prize for all my efforts. One must have a reward for such a grueling task, after all.”

Éowyn balked. “What -?!”

He cracked a smile, laughing, and Éowyn felt her heart swell with relief. “You are teasing me,” she said.

“Naturally,” he said. “You cannot possibly have thought me serious.”

“I did, for a moment.” Éowyn's cheeks burned at the confession. _You must someday learn to lie, Éowyn. Your open heart does not serve you here._

Gríma clicked his tongue in mocking disapproval. “Honestly, Éowyn,” he said. “Were that my true intent, why would I ever tell you?”

The words prickled beneath her skin, a chill in her veins. “Then what _is_ your intent, my lord?” she asked.

Gríma approached the stable doors, pressing them aside and bowing her in. “Security and wealth,” he said. “Two things that are easily granted by Théoden King for loyalty and good service. He requires my particular skills in order to best learn what is happening in his country, and in turn I gain a lofty title, lands, and gold, guaranteeing that I shall never suffer poverty. It seems a fair enough bargain, no?”

Éowyn stood outside the stable doors, turning the words over in her mind. “For some men, yes,” she said at last. “But you – I cannot say yet what it is, but I am certain there is more to your hopes than you claim.”

He looked up and offered her a winning smile. “There is one other thing I did not name...”

Éowyn arched a brow. “And what is that, my lord?”

He rose and took her hand, pressing it to his lips. “I shall leave that to your very clever mind to guess.”

_Oh._ Éowyn flushed and pulled her hand away. “You build your dreams on dangerous ground, my lord.”

“So they tell me,” Gríma agreed, more amiably than Éowyn had expected. “But life, as always, is so often full of surprises.” He gestured to the stable, a horse nickering softly nearby. “Now, if you would not mind... I'm in need of your expertise.”

Éowyn frowned, taking a wary step into the stables. “And what expertise is that, my lord?”

Gríma followed after her, keeping close to her back. “As I told you, there is to be a race here today – a battle of sorts as well. Competitors attempt to knock their opponents from their horses, where they duel upon the ground until one or both parties are dead. The remaining man at the conclusion of the race is the winner, if one might consider it _winning_.” He gestured to the stable's stalls, lines of horses and their riders all within. “I trust your opinion rather more than my own where horses and warriors are concerned. Tell me, Éowyn – which man do you think shall be our champion?”

Éowyn's frown deepened as she searched the competitors and their steeds. The horses here were kept well, she noted, though not half as well as at home – and they, as well as their riders, were armed to the teeth, knives and spikes and spears all glinting dimly in the dark light of the stable. “Why do you wish me to guess?” she asked. Suddenly she understood, turning back to Gríma with a narrow stare. “Are you _gambling_ , my lord?”

Gríma shrugged. “It's traditional,” he said, “But I fear I'm not at ease with the odds I have been given.” He gestured to a large, hulking man near the center of the stables, wearing a sword across his back. “Most are laying their bets on Einar purely for his size, which is, I suppose, a safe enough bet... but I question whether his skill in battle will prove enough in such a competition. I had hoped for a more learned opinion upon the subject before I placed a bet.”

Éowyn bit her lip, glancing about the stables with discomfort. “I am not certain I ought to offer you such advantage, my lord...” she said – but even as she spoke, she could not help but take the competitors in, searching them for weaknesses. She looked Einar over with a quizzical eye, pursing her lips. He had the marks of a fighter, but a messy one, she felt: his fists were battered and bruised from throwing punches incorrectly, and the strange way he held one of his arms indicated it had been broken once and had not healed properly. A decisive hit would break it again. And worse still, his relationship with his horse seemed difficult at best. The horse danced away from him as he tried to grip its reins, and it made a sound of alarm as he approached, tail swishing sharply behind it.

There were a few competitors she liked better for champions: a well-muscled soldier in chainmail and a helmet, scarred but clearly adept in the use of a spear; a small, lithe man with a crossbow and a clear connection with his horse; and another man with two swords and a dagger at his boot, who was practicing with his weapons and showed great promise in his movements.

Then she caught sight of a smaller figure at the back, and froze.

There was a _woman_ fighting in this competition.

She was armed in chainmail and leather, and carried at her hip a sword. Strapped to her arms and boots were several daggers, and a whip hung at her side – not for the horse, Éowyn gathered, but for any man who might dare come too close to her. She carried also a heavy spear, and Éowyn noted then a bottle filled with some strange substance that the woman was dipping her weaponry into. _Poison._

Her horse stood by her and nuzzled her face, and the woman reached up to pat it affectionately, whispering to it in Dunlendish – and Éowyn knew in an instant that she was going to win.

“Her,” she said to Gríma, turning back to him with a nod.

Gríma arched a brow, wearing a dubious expression. “Do not make the mistake of choosing the woman over seasoned men only because you envy her, Highness,” he said.

Éowyn glared him down, folding her arms over her chest. “I do not suggest her based upon idle fancy,” she said. “She has the makings of a champion in her. She carries armament that will avail her well in a variety of situations; her armor allows her free movement and yet protects her from an unseen blade; and, above all, her horse loves her, and she him. That horse will carry her into battle and do exactly as she asks of it, without hesitation or fear.” Éowyn nodded to Einar. “Your supposed champion might win a brawl in a tavern, but this competition as you have described it is beyond him. He does not love his horse; he carries but a few weapons; and old wounds will surely plague him as the day progresses. You would be wiser, I tell you, to lay your money upon one who has everything to lose, and therefore the stronger determination to win.”

Gríma smiled indulgently. “Such an impassioned speech,” he said. “I had rather more placed my hopes on Haraldr – the one carrying the crossbow.”

Éowyn scoffed, shrugged, and pressed past Gríma. “Far be it for me to prevent my lord from his folly,” she said. “Do as you wish, of course. I, a lady, must know nothing of these things, after all – though you _did_ ask for my opinion, and admitted your ignorance on the subject.”

Gríma gave an exasperated sigh, hurrying after her. “I am merely concerned that you have allowed your own wishes to blind you in this matter, Highness – nothing more. I would not _dream_ to question your knowledge and skill in this arena.”

“Would you not?” Éowyn said, with more venom than she intended. “That is certainly precisely what you are doing. Do not make the mistake of thinking your sex is the superior in battles such as these. Women are not as soft as you would have them be in your dreams. We are every bit as impassioned, angry, and dangerous as you, and make no mistake of it.”

Gríma caught up to her and took her arm, forcing her to slow her pace. “I have upset you,” he said, “And for that I am most heartily sorry – it was not my intent to wound you thus.”

“You did not _wound_ me,” Éowyn said, her voice sharp and brittle. “You reminded me, yet again, that my word is ever doubted, and my hopes and knowledge mocked – even here, where you promised I might be safe. You are no different than my brother or my cousin, counsellor. You see what you wish to and nothing more when you look at me.”

From the corner of her eye she saw Gríma balk, the comparison striking him like a slap in the face. _Good,_ she thought. _Perhaps now you will not be so quick to dismiss me. I am so weary of every word I speak being ignored, everything I say cast as a petty joke..._

Gríma released her arm and stepped in front of her, forcing her to draw to a halt. Éowyn met his eyes and stared him down, pleased to see him flinch at her coldness. “Have you something to say, counsellor?” she said.

The title was salt to an already grievous wound to Gríma; he flinched again as it rolled off her tongue, fear lurking in the dark corners of his eyes. He caught her hands in his and pressed them to his forehead, dropping to one knee before her.

“I implore my lady to forgive me my ignorance,” he said. His voice cracked when he spoke – desperate and anxious. Her fury had startled something genuine out of him – or so she longed to believe. “I could never make mockery of you; I admire you too much, and love in you these traits you speak of – your passion and your anger, your warrior's heart. Please, Éowyn... I beg of you your mercy...”

Éowyn stood frozen for a long moment, her heart fluttering painfully in her chest. He spoke so prettily that it was hard to stand unmoved – yet that was his great gift, to change minds and hearts with but a few words. “I would I knew when you spoke from your heart and when you spoke from your calculating mind, my lord,” she said with a sigh. “You are like water to me – barely grasped within my palms before you slip between my fingers.”

Gríma looked up, his eyes wet and pale under the bright sun. “My lady makes no claims to being a poet,” he said with a smile. “Yet how beautifully you speak.” He grew serious again, his grip tightening upon her fingers. “Trust that I love you, Highness – trust that above all things, for it is the strongest truth I have to offer you.”

It was the first time he had said the word, though he had all but confessed it earlier: _your bruised and battered self tore the heart straight from my chest..._ Éowyn flushed and lowered her eyes, uncertain what to say in return. She did not love him now – she knew that with a certainty – and she could not promise she would love him ever. But he tugged at her heart like no other man, and promised her gifts no other had ever thought to offer her.

If only she could be certain it was not some trap made to bind her...

She swallowed and let the thought drift away, squeezing Gríma's fingers in hers. “I will grant you pardon for now, my lord,” she said. “But think, perhaps, before you ask something of me and dismiss what I offer so fast.”

Gríma exhaled in relief, eyes closing, and pressed his forehead to her hands once more. “Thank you, Highness,” he said. “I will not disappoint you.”

Éowyn tilted her head. _Too easy. I deserve at least some slight revenge._ “Still, I think I am owed recompense for your doubt...”

Gríma looked up, a wary glint in his eye. “What recompense would you ask of me?”

Éowyn allowed herself a grin. “A small gambit, my lord: a favor owed to me if my chosen champion wins – a favor owed to you if she does not. You did wish to gamble, did you not, when first we came here?”

The wary gleam became a sparkle of delight. “For a favor from my lady, I would dare gamble anything,” Gríma said. “The wager is fair and good. I will accept your gambit.”

Éowyn gave a solemn, queenly nod, mock-serious. “Good. Then rise, my lord, and consider your sins forgiven. We would not, after all, wish to damage your clothes more than necessary for the mere sake of groveling.”

Gríma rose with not a little difficulty, flinching as he stood. “My knee could use the respite, Highness, though I would bend to you again if asked.”

“I should not think it necessary... for the moment,” Éowyn said, quashing a small smile. From the track nearby, a roar suddenly arose, thousands of voices lifted in cheer. Éowyn turned towards the sound, her heart leaping in her chest. “Is that - ?”

“Indeed it is,” Gríma said, following her gaze. “The race shall soon begin. We ought to go, if we mean to witness the success or failure of our bet ourselves.” He turned back to her and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

Éowyn hesitated but a moment before accepting his arm. He was taking her somewhere dangerous, and yet she could not be afraid. She felt only – _thrilled;_ blood beating loudly in her ears, heart rising with the promise of a real and spectacular fight. Was this not what she had hoped for when he had promised her adventure?

He had carried through on his promise thus far; Éowyn hoped he would not disappoint her now.

 

* * *

 

Stands had been built to better view the race. Hundreds of people had gathered there and were seated under the burning sun, talking and shouting. Many moved aside as Gríma and Éowyn pushed passed them, aiming for the topmost seats, where an awning shaded occupants from the sun.

Éowyn settled upon a bench there and smoothed her skirts, looking around her. She thought she spied a soldier or two from the camp – slipping away for the day, she gathered, to enjoy some sport. She sank back under the shadow of the awning and prayed they would not see her. “Does my brother ever attend events of this nature?” she asked.

Gríma sniffed disdainfully, setting his arm about Éowyn's shoulders. “He has been here once or twice, I think, though ever in disguise. I would not have heard his presence mentioned if a friend of his had not spoken of it. He did not enjoy his experience here much, and it has been long since he returned.”

Éowyn wondered what would have driven her brother from the excitement of a place like this. “And my cousin?”

Gríma made a sound of annoyance. “Théodred is ever content with the entertainment offered at the usual cities,” he said. “And he is perhaps more aware of the necessity of his safety – he is the king's only son, after all. The rules governing Théodred's behavior are nearly as rigid as those that control your own.”

That Éowyn sincerely doubted, but she chose not to give the thought voice. “The contestants are coming,” she observed, leaning forward in her seat. And there they came: six of them, heavily armed, their armor glinting in the sun as they rode their horses out into the makeshift track. A roar arose around the arena, and the hairs on the back of Éowyn's neck rose at the sound. The very ground seemed alive with the blood lust of these people, the stands shivering beneath their weight.

Criers below called out the names of the fighters: _Einar. Haraldr. Oddr. Orvar. Ulf. Sigrid._ Éowyn cheered at the last name – the woman's, she gathered. _Sigrid. My chosen champion. I know you are going to win._

Further words were spoken, but these Éowyn could not understand, for they were spoke in Dunlendish. Éowyn made a silent vow that she would have Gríma teach her the tongue when they returned – it was clear she would need it in the future. The people on these borders had no love of the Rohirrim from further inland, and Éowyn could guess why: they were treated as wholly separate from the Rohirrim themselves, creatures from another culture most hated and despised by the House of Eorl. If there was ever to be peace between them, someone of that bloodline must extend the hand of friendship, and Éowyn knew with certainty that it would not be Éomer or Théodred who would do so.

_A diplomat,_ Éowyn thought to herself, _An ambassador to nations far and wide, learning of new cultures, making friends for our nation. I could do that. At least I would then be useful._

“What are they saying?” she whispered, leaning in to Gríma.

He tightened his grip about her shoulders, bringing his lips close to her ear. “They are explaining the rules,” he said. “Why they need go on so long I cannot say; the gist is that there are none. All weapons are allowed, all poisons, all underhanded tricks – the only rule is that no one from outside may assist someone who is within. No squires bringing new blades, no man or woman from the crowd leaping into the fray, and so on.”

“Ah.” Éowyn shifted under Gríma's arm, squirming away from him and straining to see. She gripped the bench beneath her hands and sat upon its edge, leaning so far forward that Gríma stiffened and caught her about the waist, as if afraid she might fall forward. “And when do they begin?”

A young boy with a flag appeared, and the riders at once brought their horses about into their places. The boy stood with the flag raised, holding it aloft for a long, pregnant pause, in which the entirety of the crowd fell silent.

Then he snapped the flag to the ground and ran, tearing off towards the stands with a tiny, childish scream.

The horses took off at once, the riders shouting commands in various languages. The crowd bellowed into the afternoon air, many people leaping to their feet – and Éowyn soon followed suit, jumping out of her seat and pressing forward, bouncing upon the balls of her feet to better see.

Haraldr and Sigrid both soon took an impressive lead upon the others, their horses hurrying ahead; but the man with the spear (Ulf, Éowyn though his name was) soon came up behind, jabbing the spear into the horse's leg. Haraldr's mount screamed and stumbled, and Haraldr leaped free of the beast with a shout, rolling off the horse and onto his feet in the middle of the arena.

Éowyn turned and grinned fiercely at Gríma, her eyes glittering with pleasure. “Haraldr's down,” she shouted over the noise.

Gríma wrinkled his nose, still seated upon the bench and looking quite annoyed. “She still has four others to contend with who are horsed,” he called to Éowyn. “The odds yet remain in my favor.”

“So _you_ think!” Éowyn turned back to the race with a gleeful giggle, clapping her hands. “Ride hard,” she hissed under her breath, clenching her fists tightly before her. “You can win, I know you can...”

Ulf was after Sigrid now, but Sigrid and her horse moved fluidly, keeping a steady pace ahead of him. Sigrid sat low upon her mount's back, crouched down in case of a stray arrow or spear flying nearby her. From the middle of the arena, Haraldr pulled free his crossbow and raised it high, aiming at a rider passing nearby – Oddr, Éowyn thought, the one with the twin swords. Haraldr paused, aimed, and shot, and seconds later Oddr's hand flew to this throat. He fell from his horse still groping at the bolt lodged in his neck, blood spattering the ground as he landed.

The crowd roared as he squirmed upon the ground, and Éowyn roared with them. Her blood was pounding in her ears, rushing through her in a mad frenzy, and she could not keep still. _One down. Four left to fall. Then victory is hers – and mine._

Gríma finally stood and joined her, peering out over the crowd to see who had fallen. “Haraldr's kill,” he said, shouting into her ear. “Admit it, my fairest – my guess was a strong one.”

“At least _my_ champion is still horsed,” she retorted. She caught Gríma's shoulder under her palm and used it for balance, so that she could rise up on her toes to see better. Einar was thundering up behind Ulf and Sigrid, Orvar close behind him. Einar rose in his saddle and lifted his sword as if to take a swing at Ulf – but his horse panicked and reared up beneath him, bucking wildly to throw him off. “ _Yes!_ ” Éowyn screamed, raising a fist in the air as Einar was thrown to the ground, landing directly upon his bad arm. “ _Yes, cower on the ground, you miserable rat -_ ”

Gríma was laughing at her – she could only just hear him beneath the groaning crowd, most of whom, Éowyn gathered, had laid bets upon Einar – but Éowyn didn't care. This was everything she had hoped for and more: rough and wild and _real_ , no courtly show to please a mild and sheltered lady. Her heartbeat throbbed in her throat, heat curving through every inch of her body.

She wanted blood, and she was being given it.

Einar stumbled to his feet and roared aloud, raising his sword with his good hand. He charged across the track to where Haraldr sat, frantically reloading his crossbow. Too late; Einar brought his sword down upon the unprepared Haraldr's head, cracking it open in a spray of blood. Gríma flinched away and made a sound of horror, and Éowyn turned to him with a broad grin. “ _Ha!_ ” she said. “I told you so, I did say - ”

“Yes, yes,” Gríma grumbled. “You were right, I was foolish. Are you satisfied?”

Éowyn smirked. “I will only be satisfied when every last man in that ring has fallen, and you, my lord, are on your knees before me, admitting your ignorance and begging my forgiveness.”

Something shifted in Gríma's expression, from squeamish discomfort to outright hunger. “You have but to ask, my lady, and you may have me on my knees at any time,” he said.

_Oh._ Éowyn understood in an instant all that he implied, and had implied in previous hours: _a tongue lashing, upon my knees, gladly will beg again..._ Her gut clenched, a hot spike of pleasure tightening at her core, as the scene unfurled in her mind.

Bloodlust and battle and a man thrown upon her mercy: what more could she ever desire than these?

Éowyn grinned and whetted her lips, staring deeply into his eyes. “They do say in Edoras you have a gifted tongue,” she said, arching a brow. “Perhaps I will make you beg to offer it to me.”

Gríma's eyes darkened in an instant, a small and pained whine escaping him. The words were on his lips already: _Please, my lady, oh gods, lord, please..._ But the crowd screamed again, rising up and shouting around them, and Éowyn whirled, realizing she had missed something important. She strained to see outward into the arena and glanced towards its center, and saw at once what had occurred...

Sigrid had fallen.

Éowyn gasped in horror, pressing a hand to her mouth. All fantasies she had previously entertained burst, disappointment overwhelming her. _No, no – you were meant to win, you were destined to win – you can't fall now -!_

Sigrid rose, a bright sword in hand, and let out an unearthly howl, raising her sword towards the sky. The crowd returned the cry with equal vigor, the stands shaking as men and women leaped and cheered and cursed.

_She stands, still. She stands._

Gríma's breath was hot against her ear. “Perhaps it will be _you_ who begs tonight, Highness,” he whispered, curving his hand about her waist. “If things continue as they are here...”

Éowyn straightened and breathed in, a cool shiver slithering down her spine and lower, worming its way down and finding purchase between her legs. She exhaled again a moment later, shuddering beneath Gríma's arm, struggling to stand still. Lord, she had never felt so alive, so painfully aroused: before her, battle and glory, beside her, sex and power. Everything her masculine kin took for granted and had mastered was hers in this moment – and Valar, she _wanted_ it, wanted to snatch all of it and make it hers, claim it and rule it and bend it to her will.

“Either way, my lord, it seems we both will win,” she said; and Gríma made a sound, a low, pained moan, and pressed his lips against her ear, breathing harshly against her skin.

Einar was stomping across the arena to Sigrid, his sword raised high in the air. He bellowed and charged at her, and Sigrid screamed, enraged, and charged at him, their swords meeting with a clash. The clang echoed across the arena, and the crowd rose as one and cheered, the very ground seeming to shake around them.

Éowyn caught Gríma's hand and pulled it from her waist, clutching it in hers. “Come on,” she hissed, crushing Gríma's hand. “Hit his arm where it is weak – I know you see it... go on... go _on_...”

A horse screamed, and Éowyn jerked in the sound's direction, watching as Orvar's horse fell to Ulf's spear. Orvar was crushed beneath his mount in an instant. Ulf paused and circled his steed back to where Orvar lay, raising his spear high: then down it came, through Orvar's head, silencing his cry in an instant.

Three down. Three left to go.

Ulf wheeled and charged towards the center of the track, where Einar and Sigrid fought. Sigrid heard him coming and withdrew, ducking and rolling out of his way. Einar roared and raised his sword, swinging wildly at the oncoming steed. Ulf swerved in a panic to avoid him, struggling to aim his spear – it lodged itself in Einar's arm, and Einar bellowed in pain, stumbling and falling to his knees. He dropped his sword and gripped the spear's shaft instead, ripping it free – a gush of blood soon following. He howled, clutching the wounded appendage close, and stumbled away, trying to lift the spear with a blood-soaked hand.

At the gesture, Sigrid came to life again, sheathing her sword and groping for the whip at her hip. She unfurled it and cracked it experimentally, then charged up behind Einar and caught him about the neck with it. The crowd groaned as one as the whip tightened and yanked Einar back, holding him tight and choking him. He dropped the spear and clutched at the leather about his neck, face turning purple; but Sigrid held him fast, moving and shifting to keep the whip tight.

Ulf saw his chance and turned about, pulling a dagger from his boot. He rode close to the duo and tossed his knife – where it landed squarely in Einar's chest, lodging itself there and staying.

Einar collapsed to the ground, clutching at the dagger, and Sigrid let the whip drop.

Éowyn could hardly breathe. She pressed her fist hard against her mouth, her eyes wide and wild. _Please, please, please, please,_ she thought, whispering the words over and over again in her mind. _Please win, please win, please give me this one thing... please..._

Ulf was quick to overtake Sigrid upon his horse, trying to catch her by the hair to drag her – but Sigrid was fast and ducked away, rolling out of his grasp. As he had done, she reached for a dagger and threw it – but missed him as he turned about. Sigrid mouthed a curse and ran again, back towards Einar, tearing her whip from his throat. She turned just as Ulf was about to overtake her and cracked the whip in the air, startling Ulf's steed. The horse whinnied and danced away from her, while Ulf shouted commands. Back Sigrid drove it, back and back until one crack came too close to it; then the horse reared back and screamed, and Ulf was at last tossed to the ground, landing hard upon his ankle. There was an audible _crack,_ at which Gríma flinched, and Ulf howled, curling in upon himself.

Éowyn's blood pumped madly in her veins as Sigrid approached and loomed over Ulf for but an instant. Then, Sigrid unsheathed her sword, lifted it high, and brought it down, running Ulf straight through.

Sigrid had won.

The arena erupted into cheers and curses, Éowyn's own scream of joy joining the chorus. She released Gríma's hand and spun towards him, throwing her arms around his neck with a cry of pleasure. He stumbled and caught her with some alarm, only easing into the embrace an instant later.

Éowyn laughed brightly and clung the tighter, bouncing in his grip. “She won!” she cried. “She actually won, I was right, she won - ”

Gríma laughed in turn and spun her about, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Yes, Highness, you stand victorious,” he said. “My most sincere congratulations to you.”

Éowyn pulled back, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. “It would appear you now owe me a favor, my lord,” she said with a smirk. “Whatever shall I ask of you, I wonder...?”

He lifted a hand and laid it against her cheek. “Whatever you desire, Éowyn,” he said. “Whatever is within my power to give you.”

She grinned and embraced him again, holding him close, and thought, _I would wish, if I could, that this day might never end – but that is not within your power to give, nor mine._

But to have this moment – this perfect, glorious moment – was enough.

 


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grima receives orders from his master.

Involving Éowyn in gambling and bloodsport was probably not one of Gríma's better ideas. He could admit that from an objective standpoint. But it was hard to remain objective when Éowyn leaned so gladly upon his arm now, smiling and pleased and even – dare he think it? - flirtatious. His golden lady shimmered at his side, beautiful and joyous, content to serve as his companion and basking in her victory. What more could he have wished for than that?

_Oh, so very much more. This is but a taste of what I want._

At his side, Éowyn spoke animatedly of the fight, chattering away about the techniques she had witnessed during the battle: explaining, when Gríma merely hummed a single curious note, which was the superior strategy with broadsword or bow and arrow, and who put said strategies to work to greatest affect. She was – what was the word? She was _precious._ Gríma let her words fill him up, half-listening.

The other half of his mind was elsewhere.

The White Wizard was to send a servant to meet him here. It was the first time meeting one of Saruman's many messengers in his own home city, and Gríma admitted to some concern that his doings might be noticed. The Dunlendish they would speak would guard his intent from sweet Éowyn's ears; but there would be other folk about, folk who would understand and be more than willing to use what little they could glean against him. Caution was required, as ever. He knew what discomfort public affection so often caused in those who bore it witness. Éowyn would be his cover there, and thank every god that ever was that it was she who would serve the purpose. Gríma was bored of spending good coin on whores who held no spark for him.

He must find his joys where he could, after all. The wizard's duties wore heavily upon him, and Gríma was beginning to grow anxious.

He did not fear what Saruman wished to do. Gríma would not mourn Rohan's loss when its royal family and infrastructure ultimately collapsed. Justice against the House of Eorl was long overdue, and to have a part-Dunlending bring it about only sweetened its destruction; but Saruman had other, grander plans to which Gríma was not privy, and these Gríma did not doubt could prove the White Wizard's undoing. Gríma wished only to proceed with caution, that all might fall into place with little room for error.

Granted, he was opening himself to a great deal of potential error merely by having Éowyn with him. But the wizard had promised that Éowyn would be his; and what did it matter if Gríma took a little of his time to woo her, to make sure that, when the end came, she would want him? He was protecting her, he reasoned – guarding her from certain death. Rescuing her from the fate that awaited the rest of her house. Surely she would see that, when the time came?

Gríma ground his teeth. The lie sounded pitiful even to him. Éowyn would not thank him for what he was doing, but it would not matter so long as she was his. If he could convince her before his plans were revealed... if by some miracle she might find it in her heart to love him...

He clenched his fist at his side. He would find a way. He would turn that bright and noble heart to him, even if it killed him.

Even if it killed every last man, woman, and child in Rohan.

“Why do they look at me that way?”

Éowyn's voice brought Gríma abruptly back to reality. He started and glanced around. They were passing a brothel, where whores lounged freely on the porch, eyeing Gríma's rich robes and the pretty girl at his side. Éowyn frowned at them in return, staring back at them unblinking. Hers was not a frown full of judgment, as he might have expected – she was merely curious.

“That look seems particular to the harlots,” she continued, “Or I'd merely think it my bloodline interfering again. Have I done something wrong?”

Gríma skimmed the line of fallen women, a few of whom gestured and called out to him. He shook his head and turned away, tightening his grip on Eowyn's hip. He saw nothing there that interested him so much as the woman already on his arm. “No, it isn't that, though I imagine it does not help your case,” Gríma said. “I believe they are merely irritated that I, newly wealthy and undoubtedly bearing a heavy purse, will not be spending any money with them.”

Éowyn's frown deepened. “Why not?”

Precious, naive girl. Gríma arched a brow and offered her a knowing smile. “Because, _deorling,_ I am already possessed of a mistress, and thus have no need of them.”

Éowyn colored, biting her lip. “Ah,” she said. “Of course. I had forgotten.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, cheeks still flaming.

Gríma wondered how it was possible for her to have forgotten, with his arm so heavy at her waist. Did this feel natural to her – comfortable, even? It must, for her to have accepted it so easily as to have forgotten their ruse.

Dear lord. He might actually have a chance of winning his White Lady.

“It must be terrible,” Éowyn said, quite out of nowhere.

Gríma blinked, shaking back the cobwebs of his thoughts. “Beg your pardon?”

Éowyn laughed softly. “Being a whore, I mean,” she said. “At its essence it is about catering to someone's whims for money. There is little joy in that.”

“That rather depends on the whims in question, I should think,” he said. “Surely _some_ of the work must be pleasant.”

“Pleasant for _you,_ perhaps, _”_ Éowyn retorted. “It is your whims being fulfilled, after all. But the whore in question has no say in the matter.”

Of course she was right. The thought had occurred to Gríma a long time ago, the first time he had ever found himself inside a brothel. It was an idea that nagged at him even in the midst of his pleasure, that it was all a game, that none of it was real. That he had traded gold for a pretty illusion. It inevitably left him feeling empty and angry, and it was the reason he had taken to avoiding brothels, save for those occasions where he required a distraction. Whether that distraction was for an audience, or to stopper his own loneliness, depended on the night.

“You have remarkable empathy, my lady, for a woman of your stature,” he said. Best not to give voice to his true feelings on the subject; a misdirect would be wiser. “I had not thought you given to such insights about the nature of men.”

Éowyn made an indignant sound in the back of her throat. “I can, on occasion, be quite insightful,” she said. “I'm not often given the chance to do so.”

“A great pity,” Gríma said. “I should think a lady of the court would have much cause to make conjectures about the nature of the men and women around her.”

“My observations are rarely welcome,” Éowyn said, pursing her lips. A strange light came into her eyes, and she began to smile, a small, impish curve of her lips. “I might test them upon you, if you wished.”

Gríma arched both brows. “And what would you wish to infer about me, my lady? What mysteries of my nature do you most desire to uncover?”

Éowyn tilted her head slightly, her eyes shining. “We were speaking of whims...”

_Oh._ Gríma smirked, grip tightening on her arm. “And you wish to guess at mine? If you are so eager to learn, Highness, I am perfectly happy to demonstrate them for you...”

Éowyn slapped his arm, lightly, a playful reprimand. Just yesterday, he thought, she would have spat in his face for such a remark. This little adventure was having more an effect than he had dared to hope. “I'm certain you would _never_ propose the taking of a woman to whom you are neither engaged nor wedded,” Éowyn said.

“I suppose that would be quite outside the laws of propriety, wouldn't it?” Gríma said, wearing a mock frown. “Particularly with the White Lady of Rohan.”

“How fortunate that the White Lady is not here today,” Éowyn replied – and Gríma's heart leaped to his throat. He turned sharply towards her, the words on his lips: _then would my mistress love me of her own will, while her title does not weigh upon her? -_ but she did not give him time to question her meaning. She broke free of his arm and skipped in front of him, walking backwards. She looked positively wicked, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Let's see,” she said, folding her fingers behind her back. “You... like being praised and lauded for your skill.”

She was determined to see this through, and oh, it was _delightful._ Vicious triumph swelled within Gríma, but he took care that none of it showed upon his face. He waved his now-free hand in a dismissive gesture. “As does every man,” he said. “I do not know a single man willing to believe himself an inferior lover.”

“And do you count yourself a master, my lord?” Éowyn asked.

The little witch was _teasing_ him. A coy smile played about her lips, enough to drive him mad. _I have never seen you flirt before, Highness. What a pleasure it is to witness._ “I have never received any complaints...” he said, “But then, my prior mistress terminated our relationship rather suddenly, which begs many a question.” His smile widened, dark with meaning. “I shall have to hear it from your own tongue to properly gauge my talents – you being so honest and forthright a lady.”

Éowyn raised her eyes to the heavens, not deigning the remark with a reply. “Very well. Since you find that conjecture so simple...” she said, turning and falling into step beside him. “I suspect the process of seduction is rather your favorite part.”

“It is a necessary part,” Gríma said, grudgingly, “But hardly the delight of the thing.”

“I rather think it is, for you,” Éowyn said. When she looked at him, her eyes were clear and piercing, bright and full of interest. “You do so enjoy playing games with those around you – me especially, it would seem. Word games, mind games, power play – it hardly matters, so long as you get to toy with someone. The slow and steady fall of a woman to your hand must give you the greatest pleasure.”

It was true that much of his delight with Éowyn came in her response to him – visceral and immediate, and powerful. Each goading taunt made her prickle and snap, each well-placed whisper creating a florid blush upon her cheeks. It was a joy to him, finding the cracks in her strong armor and watching her composure shatter.

Oh, that he could make her shatter in other, more intimate ways...

“You have me there,” he said at last. “I confess, sweet lady, I do rather enjoy toying with you. But the seduction is not the heart of the thing; and that is surely what you meant to infer of me. You've yet to name a true whim to which I could agree.”

Éowyn frowned, a crease appearing between her brows. Her freckles stood out especially strongly in the bright light of the sun, sprinkled across her nose and lining her cheekbones. “Power,” she said at last, slowly. “You'd wish to play with power, I deem, as ever you do in court.”

Well, this was certainly an intriguing turn. “Do enlighten me, Highness,” he said. “How does one go about that in the bedchamber?”

He had expected Éowyn to blush, but she merely beamed, reveling in his interest. “Oh, I imagine it might perhaps involve tying up one's partner, from time to time; and were you to feel especially daring, you might perhaps bring riding crops into the equation...”

Oh, she was wicked – wicked, and bold. Did she dare to suggest such things, to lay such tempting possibilities before him? He had not thought Éowyn would ever be such a tease. Something tightened in his stomach, hard and hot, at the thought of Éowyn's pretty wrists wrapped in silk, tied together and pulled taut above her head... “Go on,” he murmured, his voice a low, hungry growl.

She caught her lip between her teeth, stifling a grin. She had struck a nerve, and she knew it. “I imagine you are the sort who likes to leave marks,” she said, “In whatever form you may – bites and bruises, ink stains and wax splatters and the long red lines of fingernails clawed across skin...”

He imagined his hands on Éowyn's thighs, dragging his nails across her perfect body, feeling her throat jump beneath his teeth when she cried out in startled delight. Heat flooded his veins, rushing uncomfortably low. He ground his teeth and tried to clear his thoughts. “You have a vivid imagination,” he said. “But little evidence to support such a claim.”

“Oh, there is much evidence to support it, if one knows where to look,” Éowyn said. Her voice was bright with glee, and Gríma wondered if she considered this a certain sort of vengeance for all the dark words he had whispered so freely in her ear this day. “With any lover you should take, you would be possessive, of course, as you are of all things you claim for your own. You like to be sole proprietor of the things that are your province; that is plain by the things you have chosen to master – reading, writing, oration. These are things no other man in our court could rule but you. You would wish the same of the woman you took to your bed, and you would mark her as yours at every opportunity, lest any dare to think they might have mastery over her as you do.”

Gríma's mouth went very dry. He had never thought of it that way specifically, but as she spoke, so infuriatingly casual, he realized that she was right – that he chose his crafts and, apparently, his women, purely for the challenge they posed. Mastering them, in whatever form that took, gave him indescribable pleasure. It was why Éowyn was appealing where the whores they were walking past were not. Éowyn was fierce and proud and strong, dangerous in her own right. She was intelligent and bold, and there was a profound sadness about her that had caused her to create a shield against the world – a shield he meant to break.

Choosing Éowyn meant choosing a challenge. Choosing Éowyn meant choosing a woman no else had the courage or audacity to master. And winning her – making her his – _possessing_ her –

It unnerved him how aroused the mere thought made him feel.

He cleared his throat. “Some might say that all men feel that way, too.”

“But not for the same reasons you do,” Éowyn countered. “Men like to claim what is theirs, I suppose, but you would wish to be claimed equally in return, I think. You would bear your marks with pride. I suspect you would like being owned just as much as owning.”

And now Gríma's thoughts lingered on images he only entertained very, very late at night – thoughts of Éowyn astride him, her mouth to his neck and his wrists pinned beneath her hands. _Use me, take me, do with me what you will – so long as I am yours and you are mine I care not a wit. Let me possess you as you possess me... I am already yours._

“You would certainly like to think so, wouldn't you, my lady?” he said, before his imagination carried him too far. “After all, it is your desire to possess, too, isn't it? To be given power and freedom in the bed which is meant to chain you... you would like nothing better. Your chastity and womanhood bind you to the halls of Meduseld, and keep you from the battle and glory you so long for; but if you might take that marriage bed and force it to bend to your will – if you might spit upon the concept of chastity and purity itself, and make it your power, your chance for dominance – what greater pleasure for you than that?”

He had the unexpected delight of completely startling Éowyn. Her lips parted, falling open in a small gasp. Her eyes widened and her cheeks finally colored with a blush. The knot in Gríma's stomach tightened again when he recognized the flare of arousal in her eyes, desire coming vividly to life in the soft curves of her mouth.

Drunk on his success, he pushed forward, pausing in their walk, pressing closer to her. “The idea pleases you, I see,” he said. “I suppose they never told you, princess, that passion is not passive; it is alive and ravenous and wild, and when it is honed you may use it as a weapon just as deadly as any sword. There are men who will let you rend your frustration from their flesh, who will give you a fight when you most desire one – men who would just as soon be taken by you as take you for themselves. Is that what you desire, my _deorling_ – to take, to rend, to ruin?”

The longing upon her face was unbearable. The ache within his hungry flesh throbbed and responded to the need within her own as if he could feel it himself, as if her desire was swallowing him whole.

“I can't,” she said, her voice very small. “I can't – as a lady of the court – the rules – ”

Gríma pressed closer, closing his hands over her arms. “Hang the rules,” he growled. “And hang the court. I can give you what you seek. Let me in, and you will never ache and want like this again.”

Éowyn made a desperate noise, part plea, part snarl, and abruptly closed the distance between them, pressing her mouth to his. _Yes, lord, yes, a thousand times yes –_ He caught her around the waist and dragged her against him, tugging her off into the nearest alley, pressing her back against the hard stone wall of the closest shop.

She was clumsy and precious when she kissed him, as if she knew the mechanics but had never practiced before. There was too much tongue and too much teeth, and he didn't care in the slightest. He kissed her back with all the grace he could muster, desperate to make her ache again, desperate to feel her squirm and moan and cry out at his touch. She caught his lower lip between her teeth and tugged, just a touch too hard, and it did strange things to his spine, hot white light crackling behind his closed lids. He needed her skin beneath his palms, needed her throat beneath his mouth.

He caught her hair in one hand and pulled, yanking her lips from his and exposing her neck. He pressed his mouth to it eagerly, tongue darting out to taste her, taking in the salt of her skin with greedy, ravenous delight. Her throat jumped beneath his mouth, just as he had hoped, a gasp bursting from her lips. She gave a cry – higher and needier than he had imagined she would sound – and clawed at him, her fingers scraping down his back, tearing at the fabric of his tunic. _Rend it off me, princess, if it please you,_ he thought. _I will wander these streets naked if you will but give yourself to me..._

He moved lower still, made bold by her cry, running his tongue over the hollow of her throat, pressing his lips to her collar bone. He released her and tugged at the laces of her bodice instead, remembering in a rush how easily this bodice would spring open. Just one small pull and she would be freed to him...

Éowyn jerked back with a startled gasp, tearing free of his hands. “No,” she gasped, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth and turning her back. “No, I can't – I _can't_ – ”

He almost – almost – snatched her back to him. But the ringing _no_ hung between them, as solid as a marble wall, and he drew his hands in tight before he could press her too far. His breath was short and heavy and painful in his chest. He swallowed hard and finally spat out, “Why not? Because it is me you would be taking?”

“No,” Éowyn said, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. “Because it is _me_ , and I am an heir to House Eorl, and I have a duty to fulfill.”

“To whom?” Gríma snapped. “The court? The king? The country?”

“Yes,” Éowyn replied, her knuckles going white. “To all of them.”

She turned to look at him. Her eyes were large and glassy and frightened. Gríma did not think he had ever seen her afraid before. The hard anger in him unwound and gave way at the sorrow in her expression, the anger in her fists. Sweet Éowyn was as much a prisoner of her House as the rest of the country: tied to duty and tradition that she did not want, sinking under the legacy of a bloodline that was dying out bit by bit. “Éowyn,” he murmured, holding out his hand to her.

She looked between it and him as if he offered her a mighty temptation.

“I won't,” he said, very softly. “I swear it. I won't.”

Éowyn's eyes fluttered closed, but she came back to him all the same, curling her fingers through his. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled, her eyes locked on the street.

Gríma sighed, untangling his fingers from hers and slipping his arm around her waist. “Don't be. I understand.” His hand tightened at her hip, tugging her just an inch closer. “If, however, you should change your mind...”

A small, soft smile crossed her lips. “I may count upon your services?” she asked, glancing slyly upwards from beneath long lashes. “Such a generous, self-sacrificing offer, counsellor.”

He returned her smile, more affectionately than he had intended. “A man does what he must for his princess.” He glanced up, frowning when he noticed the position of the sun. “What time is it?”

Éowyn glanced around her. “Late afternoon, I should think,” she said. “Several hours past noon. Why? Have I distracted you from your appointment?”

“Very nearly, I should say.” Gríma kept his arm at her waist, pulling her back into the streets. “We shall have to rush, I fear, to get where we are going.”

 

* * *

 

The inn was the sort of dark and questionable that would have been well-suited to a tale of intrigue told around a winter fire. Éowyn tensed at Gríma's side as they approached it, casting it a suspicious glance.

Gríma laughed at her wary glare. “You _did_ ask to see places and people you had never encountered before,” he said. “The places you are not permitted to go are considered _unsafe_ for a reason.”

Éowyn's tension did not seem to ease at the remark. “I cannot imagine you would meet an associate of my uncle's in such a place,” she said.

Ah yes. His _associate._ Gríma schooled his expression into careful neutrality, aware now of the lies he must weave for her to keep her suspicions at bay. “I would not call this particular contact an _associate_ of Théoden King,” he said. “I would consider him a resource. He has information we require regarding the borders between Dunland and Rohan.”

“And he agreed to meet with you?” Éowyn asked. “To what end?”

She was yet suspicious of his intent, it seemed. _Clever girl. The gods combined in you both beauty and intelligence, and yet trapped you in a gilded prison where you might whither away in sorrow._ “The end that drives all men, my lady – power,” Gríma said. The lie tasted sweet and easy upon his tongue, for it was not entirely untrue. “He hopes, I think, to gain horses and land here, and be granted pardon for his crimes.”

Éowyn bit her lip. “Then he is a criminal.”

“Unsavory, most certainly,” Gríma agreed, “But then, so am I.”

He had half-hoped Éowyn might argue that point, but she merely fell silent, a dark expression in her eyes. It was too much to hope for, he supposed, that Éowyn might see him as noble for his work – after all, she had borne witness to many things that betrayed Gríma's seedy past. Perhaps he had revealed too much...

Éowyn leaned against his side, pressed firm and warm against him. Smiling, Gríma tightened his grip upon her and glanced towards her. _No. This is right. This is as it should be. She trusts me now as she did not before. Sometimes a well-placed truth is more useful than a pretty falsehood._

The inn was exactly as Gríma remembered it: dark and mostly empty, with a few other shadowy figures hunched in nearby tables, whispering to one another. Shaded tables and chairs were gathered haphazardly throughout. An innkeeper with an ugly scar and beady eyes approached: Ceolmund, an old acquaintance, one of Gríma's many spies.

Ceolmund bowed when he recognized Gríma, careful not to look at Éowyn. “Greetings, old friend,” he said in Dunlendish. “Be welcome.”

“Thank you, Ceolmund,” Gríma said. “I'm awaiting an... acquaintance. If you might send him my way when he arrives?”

“Certainly. The table at the back there may be best. Quieter, and less troublesome folk about.”

Gríma tilted his head in acknowledgement and guided Éowyn to the table in question, tucked away in a corner and nearly hidden behind the tall back of its bench. He bowed and gestured for Éowyn to enter first, waiting until she was settled to join her. Her fingers tapped nervously against the table as she looked around, noting the dim light, the rough, scarred patrons, the disrepair of the inn itself. “Is the proprietor a friend of yours?” she asked, casting Gríma another wary glance.

“An acquaintance,” Gríma replied. Ceolmund reappeared with two mugs of ale, sliding them onto the table before discretely disappearing again. Éowyn eyed hers as though it was poisoned. “Nothing more. There are a great many people I used to know in this city, and I find they are still useful every now and again.”

“Hmm.” Éowyn folded her arms across her chest and sank back into her seat, glancing towards Gríma's belt. She sought his dagger, he imagined, to make sure it was near to hand if it was needed.

Gríma slid it out of its sheath and offered it to her with a thin smile. “Would you feel better holding this?” he asked. “You may keep it for the moment, if it will set your mind at ease.”

“At ease? In this place? Unlikely,” Éowyn said – but she took the dagger all the same, fiddling with its hilt. “How long before your... _associate_ arrives?”

“I should think soon... but these things are never entirely precise, I'm afraid.” Gríma lifted a hand and idly smoothed a lock of Éowyn's hair, coiling a strand around his fingers. Who knew, after all, when he would be permitted to behave so familiarly with her again? He was pressing his luck, but he was unlikely to have another chance. “He will come in his own time, when it is safest.”

Éowyn worried at the table with the knife's tip, leaving an ever-growing line in her wake. Gríma watched her work with idle curiosity, his fingers still curled in her hair. “What is it exactly you are gathering for my uncle?” she asked. She kept her voice low, thank the gods, so that none around them could hear their conversation. “I never imagined him to be the sort of man who requires information from such people.”

“Every good king requires an agent who is able to dirty their hands on his behalf.” Gríma watched as the line in the wood grew deeper, turning slowly into an elaborate curve. She was carving some sort of pattern. “Every good queen, too, for that matter. If the king has no knowledge of those who would plot against him, how can he defend himself and his kingdom? It is all well and good to pretend there are no enemies to the throne; but there are always vipers who crave the power the highest seat in the land holds, and they do not stop working, no matter who may sit at the nation's head.”

Éowyn smiled to herself, carving another detail into her pattern. It was a horse, Gríma realized, albeit a fairly crude one. Ceolmund would not be pleased to find it there when they left. “Some would say that you are one such viper.”

“Ah. Yes. Half the court at least, if my servants have done their work as thoroughly as I asked of them.” They were _right,_ of course, but Gríma felt entitled to some bitterness on his own behalf. After all, he had done nothing as yet to move the court to such an opinion. The courtiers had judged him based only on his hair and his face, and while he was very aware of his defects, he did not think he deserved quite so stern a judgment.

Maybe after the war was over, when half of Rohan was a smoking ruin and all of Eorl's kin but Éowyn dead... but not yet.

“They judge me because I am ugly and Dunlendish, I think,” he said. It was the only part he dared give voice to. “Neither of which very much please the court.”

“Your lurking and undue influence on my uncle might have something to do with it,” Éowyn said. Her horse was coming along now, looking a little better for more added details: ears, a mane, a little filigree. “You must know my brother and I are forthright and honest to a fault. It is hard for us to fathom a person who keeps his truths so closely that none might ever decipher them.”

The mention of Éomer sent an angry, rankling prickle through Gríma's gut. What poison he might spit over her brother's name; what monstrous shapes he might convince her Éomer was, if he had the time. But now was not the moment, not when she was feeling so favorably towards him. “I have not been given cause to trust in honest words,” he said instead. “My truth, I find, is one most folk would rather set aside. If all of Rohan could pretend I did not exist, they would gladly do so. If they might forget Dunland itself, I'm sure they would. Yet here I am, an ugly reminder of both what dirty work a king's servants must do, and what Rohan has wrought upon Dunland for many long years.”

Éowyn paused, looking to him with a deep, searching gaze. She set the knife aside and folded her hands in her lap, tilting her head. “There is something else about you that sets men's nerves on edge,” she said. “Some aspect of you that feels false, always, as if you wear a mask.”

Gríma smiled thinly. “You are aware, I trust, that that is in fact the meaning of my name.”

“It had not escaped my notice.” She smiled in return, warmly, and Gríma relaxed, brushing his thumb across her cheek.

“Whatever I am to the court, Highness, I pray that you now see what I can be to you,” he said. “My heart is ever in your keeping – and that, I assure you, is no lie.”

“No... _that_ isn't,” Éowyn agreed. Her smile had faded, some of the soft light in her eyes melting away. “But there are many things about you I have yet to puzzle out, and that...”

Gríma arched a brow. “Frightens you?”

Éowyn scoffed. “You don't frighten me, Gríma son of Gálmód,” she said. “And you may take that as _my_ truth.”

He laughed and took a sip of ale, eyeing the small horse Éowyn had carved. _Oh, Éowyn – you may one day regret that you did not fear me more._ “To my fearless shieldmaiden, then – the champion of my heart, and of the House of Eorl.”

Éowyn pursed her lips. “You mock me, counsellor.”

“Never, my lady. I am as serious and grim as the grave.”

Now at last he earned a smile and a laugh. Éowyn reached for her mug and toasted in return to him, sipping at its rim. “Grim,” she said. “A much more suitable nickname, I think, than the one currently favored in Edoras.”

_Lord._ She had deigned to be so familiar as to grant him a pet name. Gríma's heart skipped several beats. “You may call me whatever you desire, Highness,” he said. “I am, as always, your servant.”

“Grim it is, then,” she laughed, and took another sip of ale.

 

* * *

 

An hour passed them by. Then another. While conversation flowed easily at first, Éowyn soon began to grow restless, glancing about for any sign of Gríma's would-be contact. When she spoke, there was an edge to her voice that she could not shake – a note of alarm even Ceolmund could hear when he brought out a meal for them.

“Perhaps we ought to go,” she said at last, the words breathy and panicked. “It seems dangerous to linger, don't you think?”

“No.” The word was soft, Gríma's fingers gentle in her hair, tracing its waves and smoothing them into place. “We are safer here than you might think. Certainly no one will think to look for us in this place.”

“Someone might,” Éowyn said. Gríma has watched her carve a series of little horses into the table top by now, the number increasing with her panic. He counted seven of them as he offered her an apple tart – which she soundly rejected, shaking her head. “Someone might have seen us leave, and uncle will certainly be suspicious. What if – ”

Gríma sighed, and tilted her chin up. Éowyn sucked in a sharp breath, lips parting in surprise. “You worry a great deal, lovely,” he said, stroking her cheek. “I had hoped you would have more faith in me.”

Éowyn choked back a hysterical laugh. “It is not you I fear,” she said.

_Then what, Highness? Your uncle? The return to camp?_

“You cannot control my associate's comings and goings,” Gríma said, pressing his lips to her forehead. It was an intimate gesture – a dangerous gesture. But she had allowed him far more mere hours prior. He trusted this one chaste gesture might go unremarked-upon. “So let it go, and come back to the present. To me.”

“But my uncle – ”

Lord, there were ears everywhere, and Éowyn was speaking too freely. One of the armed men nearby had turned his head and was looking Éowyn over now with an inquisitive air. “Hush,” Gríma murmured, stroking her hair to calm her.

It had the very opposite effect, as he ought to have known it would. Éowyn had never liked being silenced. “No,” she snapped, her voice starting to rise. “The whole camp will have noticed my - ”

Gríma gritted his teeth and caught her chin, tilting her face up to his. Very well – if she would not be silent, he would silence her himself. He bent and kissed her, hard, cutting her off before she could say anything worse. He half-expected her to slap him, or to fight and struggle; but she merely gasped a moment before sinking against him, returning the kiss with caution.

_Gods..._

He kissed her fiercely now. Given an inch, he took all that she would grant him, pressing her back against the wall. His hand upon the bench sat dangerously close to her thigh, and if he shifted just so he might get her to part her legs to make space for him...

“Counsellor.”

_Gods damn him. Why did he have to appear_ _ **now?**_ Gríma broke the kiss with an angry snarl, unsurprised when Éowyn blushed and skittered away from him as much as her seat would allow. “Reidar,” Gríma said coldly, turning and settling back against the bench. “How good of you to join us, finally.” The latter words were spoke in Dunlendish. Éowyn tensed as Gríma spoke, her fingers closing about the knife and staying there.

Reidar smirked and nodded to Éowyn. “I see you've been keeping busy,” he said. His gaze lingered upon her, sliding over her body. Éowyn returned his stare, eyes narrowed. She might not have understood what it was Reidar had said, but the language of lust needed no translation.

“A man must have his vices,” Gríma replied. His voice was airy, but jealous anger prickled in his chest. Who was Reidar to look at Éowyn so boldly, to let his eyes caress her like he must surely wish his hands could? Éowyn was not his to touch. _Nor is she yours,_ he reminded himself. _He knows not who she is. Let him stare if he likes. He'll not lay a finger upon her after._ “And when one's associate is so very late, it helps to have a vice with which to while away the hours. What kept you?”

Reidar finally tore his eyes from Éowyn, grabbing for his goblet and making a sound of disgust. “Theoden's men were out in force,” he said. “Soldiers were scattered everywhere. I couldn't say what caused the trouble – but they seemed to be searching for something, or someone.” Reidar looked to Éowyn once more, smiling a secret smile. “Perhaps someone important to the King himself has gone missing.”

Gríma clenched his teeth, but kept his expression impassive. _Damn him. Of course Éowyn's absence would not go unnoticed, but to have him guess her true nature..._ Gríma felt the weight of the poison ring he wore upon one finger, considering its contents and how easy it might be to slip those contents into Reidar's cup. “Strange,” Gríma said aloud. “I heard nothing of such a disturbance when I departed the camp this morning. It must be a recent trouble.”

“So it must.” Reidar returned his gaze to Gríma and raised his goblet, taking a long sip. “At any rate, we are here now, despite delays. You are prepared for the message?”

“I am.” Gríma remained still, though tension instantly coiled about his spine. Receiving messages from Saruman was always like this. It was better than traveling to Isengard to receive orders himself, but any mention of the White Wizard still sent a shudder through Gríma despite his best efforts. “What is it my lord requests of me?”

Reidar leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “He has asked that you proceed with the plan. Things are progressing more quickly than he had at first believed, and we must act quickly if we are to weaken the throne as intended.”

_So soon?_ Gríma's mind raced. “Now?” he said. “The King is upon his summer sojourn – we have a few more weeks before we are to return to Edoras – ”

“My lord would prefer that the summer sojourn be cut short,” Reidar said. “The task is not beyond you, I trust.”

Gríma frowned. “No – no, it is not,” he said. “I am prepared to do as he asks. I simply question the motive behind the demand. We had not intended to take this step for months yet. The colder months and the anniversary of his wife's death provide more excuse for the grip of illness – ”

Reidar shrugged. “It is not for me or you to question our lord's intentions,” he said. “I merely bring the orders. He did say, however, that a more public display of the King's weakness might lend his continued decline greater credibility.”

Gríma considered that, turning his goblet atop the table. There was some fair strategy in that, he supposed – but there were also more opportunities for things to go amiss, more healers and soldiers and fewer secret, guarded places in which to act. Yet if Saruman commanded it...

Gríma cast Éowyn a secret glance. Saruman had promised Éowyn would be Gríma's when Rohan fell, that her life would be spared and they two left to their own devices. He was so very close to having all he had ever desired... he could not anger the wizard now.

“If that is my lord's wish, it will be done,” he said.

This ought to have satisfied Reidar and concluded their interview – yet still he lingered, glancing significantly to Éowyn. “No distractions,” he said.

Gríma pursed his lips. _Easier said than done._ “No distractions,” he agreed.

Reidar smiled. “Think of it this way,” he said. “The sooner our lord's plans are executed, the sooner you will have her – and the sooner you will not need to take her away disguised as something she plainly is not.”

The poison ring felt especially heavy just then. Gríma clenched his fingers about his goblet and pretended to frown. “I don't take your meaning,” he said.

Reidar laughed. “You lie very well, counsellor,” he said. “I'll give you that. Still, best to be careful when sweeping off with the King's niece. You are not entirely indispensable.”

Gríma worked his jaw, struggling to keep his breathing slow and even. No – Théoden King _needed_ him, was fond of him, even. There were few things now that might cause Gríma to lose his seat at the King's side. He was certain of it. Only something very foolish might turn the King's good opinion sour.

_Something like taking his un-chaperoned sister-daughter to a fair she was specifically forbidden to attend._

Gríma bit down hard upon his tongue. He was struck, suddenly, with the foolhardiness of what he had done. He had been so intoxicated with the notion of winning Éowyn upon his own merits that he had not truly stopped to consider the consequences of her absence. He had made cursory arrangements to protect both himself and her, it was true – had even gone so far as to leave a note in Éowyn's name suggesting she had gone wandering for a place to picnic and rest alone – but these things would not save him from the King's wrath if Théoden discovered what had truly occurred. Panic throbbed to life in Gríma's veins, the precariousness of his position suddenly made clear to him.

_How could you have been so stupid?_

Éowyn's palm against his chest brought him crashing back to the present moment. He glanced sharply in her direction and found her staring at him with a worried frown, gray eyes large and luminous and lovely even in the dimness of this wretched inn. Lord, she was _so_ beautiful – the fairest creature that ever walked the earth. _How indeed,_ he thought, the smallest smile curving his mouth as he drank her in. _How could I_ _ **not**_ _?_

“Your concern is touching, Reidar,” Gríma said, never taking his eyes from Éowyn. The Dunlendish sat heavy on his tongue. “Yet it is unwarranted, I assure you. All shall be in order, just as my lord requires.”

“For your sake, I hope you're right.” Reidar rose and nodded to Éowyn, offering Gríma a bow. “Until next time, counsellor.”

Gríma waved Reidar off, warily watching as the man made his way to the door.

“Did you get what you needed?” Éowyn asked. Her grip on his knife released, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.

“Yes,” Gríma said. “And apparently your uncle is looking for you. We'd best make our way back to camp, before evening – ”

An ominous roll of thunder resounded. A crack of lightning lit the windows, and when Reidar swung the door open, rain poured through in sheets, driving wildly in the wind. In his distraction, Gríma had managed not to notice the storm rolling in.

“Well.” Gríma stared at the driving rain, another crackle of lightning bursting through the sky. “Perhaps not.”

Éowyn bit her lip, worrying at her skirts. “We might be able to ride it out, if - ”

“No,” Gríma sighed, running his hand over his eyes. “No, I'm afraid that would be unwise. The plains in this area are unforgiving. In rain like this we might easily lame my horse or go astray. Better not to risk your safety, I think, or your uncle really _will_ kill me.”

“I won't allow that,” Éowyn said. She was so sure, so certain, that Gríma's heart soared for a moment. “So... if we cannot return... what now?”

Gríma glanced to Ceolmund, who was busy at another table. “I suppose we'd best take a room for the night.”

Éowyn tensed beside him, grabbing at his arm. “ _One_ room?”

Ah, yes. Propriety. In other circumstances, he would of course have followed the rules and gotten Éowyn her own room – but here, when she was disguised as his mistress, when so many unfriendly eyes were upon him...

“It would be rather unusual for a nobleman to rent one room for himself and another for his mistress, wouldn't you think?” Gríma said, glancing at her, daring her to challenge him. “Some would find it suspicious. We'd do better not to draw their notice, I think. Besides, how am I to know you are safe and well if I cannot keep an eye on you?”

Éowyn swallowed hard, gripping her skirts the tighter. “Gríma, we _can't_ – if word were ever to escape, if anyone were ever to discover - ”

“No one is going to discover anything,” Gríma soothed, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Besides, what will they have to tell? That a counsellor guarded you as you slept once in some dark, unfriendly inn?”

Éowyn stared at his mouth. “Is that all you mean to do?”

Gríma met her eyes and held them. “I will do nothing my lady does not ask of me,” he said, and meant it; he did not want an unwilling bedmate. But using wit and word and touch to convince her to _be_ willing? That was another matter. “Will that suffice?”

Éowyn could not hold his gaze. She turned aside and nodded weakly, still fretting at her clothes. It was less pleased than Gríma might have hoped, but it would due for now. One acquiescence might still lead to another, if his skill proved artful enough.

He kissed her hand again and left her to make arrangements with Ceolmund.

 


End file.
